


to the sky without wings

by leupagus



Series: Trash Fire Jesus [1]
Category: Journey to Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-11 02:10:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 81,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poe dreams of a blue-green tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosepetalfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosepetalfall/gifts).



> Thanks to toadpuff, ifeelbetter, moggiesandtea (on AO3) and broadlybrazen (on tumblr) for reading along with this insanity and laughing with me more often than at me. Even bigger thanks go to spatz, imyriadbits, rosepetalfall, and gyzym, whose enthusiasm, insight, and support made this story possible past the first five hundred words.
> 
> Title taken from the _Bijak of Kabir_.
> 
> [Playlists and artwork listed here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5989447/chapters/13772220)
> 
> And please check out [SKY//WINGS](http://rebeccamock.bigcartel.com/product/sky-wings-pre-order) by Rebecca Mock, a comic based on the first two chapters of this fic.
> 
> Permission is given for any and all transformative works of any kind - my only request is that you let me know.
> 
> *

When Poe dreams, he dreams of a blue-green tree, dappled and strange and beloved.

It isn’t really _his_ tree, Pops says, but Mama laughs and pushes Pops’s head like she’s trying to shove an idea out of his ear and she says, of course it’s Poe’s tree, didn’t she risk certain death so her baby boy would have it? And wasn’t it given to her by the savior of the galaxy himself, to keep safe? And so Poe gives it water every morning, reads it bedtime stories every night — everybody likes bedtime stories, even trees, this is a fact — keeps Mama and Pops informed of all the new leaves that unfurl.

Pops says there’s something unnatural about the way the tree has grown in just a couple of years, but Mama says their little boy is growing, too, and best that he grow under the shade of _his_ tree, isn’t it? And Poe doesn’t understand but he watches the branches bend and curl to let him climb up amongst its leaves, a fortress and spaceship and cathedral, just for him. 

  


*

  


Poe meets the first love of his life in the branches of his tree.

He’s hiding, up here where his parents never find him. Mama wants him to wash his face and Pops wants him to change his clothes and not act like a hellion for five minutes, _please_ , there’s someone important coming for dinner. But important people are always big and loud and they ruffle his hair and pinch his cheeks and then they ignore him. Someone important won’t care if he doesn’t ever come down from his tree _ever_. Maybe neither do Mama and Pops; it’s gotten dark and quiet, and that’s when he remembers the bedtime story Mama read to him last night about the wild huerkan who roam the streets looking for children who don’t brush their teeth. He starts to get concerned.

Mama shouts something in the house that he can’t hear, but is probably his full name followed by a “you little devil.” The back door opens and he hears “—Elnya Dameron, you little devil! Wherever you’re hiding, you’d better get inside _this instant_!”

“I think I know where he is,” someone says, a voice Poe doesn’t know.

There’s more talking that Poe can’t hear, and the door closes. Poe holds tight to the branches. Mama hasn’t even taught him how to use a blaster yet; what if the huerkan try to drag him out of the tree and eat all his bones up?

“Hello?” says a voice from just beyond the shelter of leaves. “Can I come in?”

Poe hasn’t ever heard of a huerka being this polite, so he says, “Okay?”

There’s a rustling of branches and a man peers in, pushing leaves away to stand inside Poe’s hiding spot. Poe looks down; the man’s feet are on the ground, but his eyes are level with Poe’s. They are blue eyes, kind and very bright. “Thank you for inviting me in,” says the man. “Am I addressing Mr. Poe Dameron?”

“Yes please,” Poe says, because Mama says manners are good for impressing people.

The man smiles, clearly _very_ impressed. “A pleasure to meet you, Poe. I’m Luke.”

“Are you important?” Poe asks, frowning. He doesn’t look like any of the important people from before. He has gold hair and a funny sort of nose, and he’s dressed all in black like Poe does when he’s pretending to be Dark Fader and L’Ulo is the Jedi Master. He doesn’t look scary, though. He looks nice.

And he looks confused. “What do you mean?”

“Mama said someone important was coming to dinner but they never want to play with me or read to me or tell me _anything_ ,” Poe says, trying to convey the depth of his woe. “They just want to talk to Mama and Pops and nobody talks with _me_.”

Luke smiles, wide and happy. “Well then, Poe, I can promise you that I’m not important at all.”

“Good,” Poe says, heaving a giant sigh and flopping back on his favorite branch, grown wide and flat so he can press his back up against it and stare up at the sky peeking through the leaves. He absently brushes his hand down another branch, telling it thank you because his tree is nice to him, almost as nice as the man leaning against the trunk and looking around. Like Poe’s tree is really neat, which of course it is, but most people don’t notice.

Luke says, “I understand you’ve been taking very good care of this tree.”

Poe wonders if this man is named after Luke Skywalker. He pulls himself up again and says, “Mama said it’s mine, and you have to take care of your things especially if they’re alive because if you don’t they can die.” It was a scary thing to find out, and maybe Luke doesn’t know about it yet, because he looks surprised when Poe tells him. He doesn’t seem very old — not nearly so old as Mama and Pops. And Mama and Pops have to tell him stuff all the time so he doesn’t forget, like about taking care of the tree or washing his hands after he uses the bathroom. Maybe Luke doesn’t have a mom or dad to tell him things like that.

“Really? You’re clearly a very conscientious young man,” Luke tells him, and Poe is so pleased that he doesn’t even ask what conscientious means. “I wonder, Poe, would you care to come in and have some dinner? I’d like to hear more about your tree and how it’s doing. If you don’t mind,” he adds, and Poe thinks he must really not be the important person after all, which is a relief, because Luke is already much more interesting than any old important person anyway.

Poe reaches out for Luke’s arms to grab onto so he can get down, and Luke holds him very carefully, like he’s hardly ever helped anybody out of trees before. Poe takes his hand because that way they’re two people who look like one big person, and maybe the huerkan won’t come and eat up their bones if they hurry back to the house really fast. “Are you named after Luke Skywalker?” he asks Luke as he pulls him along, because Luke probably doesn’t know about the huerkan. “He’s the last Jedi and he’s got a lightsaver and he’s magic. Did your mom and dad name you after him?”

Just then Mama opens the door. She’s got her hands on her hips which means she’s mad, so Poe does a battle plan and hides behind Luke’s legs. “You little — I am so sorry, Commander,” Mama says.

“It’s fine,” says Luke, laughing, dragging Poe out from hiding and putting his other hand on Poe’s shoulder. It’s strange and chilly through the glove, even though Luke’s hand that’s holding his feels warm, like the tree does, like sunshine on his face. “We had a very informative talk. He wants to know if I’m named after Luke Skywalker.”

Mama laughs as if he just told a joke, but Poe doesn’t even mind because they get inside and there’s real yucca for dinner and a cake for dessert and Luke thinks his X-wing models are cool and they play space battles until Poe gets tired and lies down on the sofa, his head in Mama’s lap and his feet stretched out to touch Luke’s leg where he’s sitting on the other end. Mama and Pops and Luke are talking but he doesn’t mind; just lets the sound push and pull over him.

“So does he — is he…” Pops says.

Luke answers, “No, Mr. Dameron—“

“Thought I asked you to call me Kes, Commander.”

“I thought I asked _you_ to call me Luke.”

Pops chuckles. “Fair enough.”

“The tree doesn’t… imbue people,” Luke says. “At least not in any of the texts I’ve read. I’d say your son has about as much of the Force as Shara here. Enough to become a damn good pilot one day, if he wants to. Not enough to—“ Luke pauses, and there’s the weird sound that comes from whenever Luke moves his right hand, the one with the glove on it. “Not enough to put him in danger.”

Poe falls asleep clutching his X-wing model, thinking that whatever Luke wants him to be, he’ll be the best in the world. The best in the galaxy.

  


*

  


The second time Poe meets Luke, he’s almost two whole years older and loads smarter, not like those dumb little kids who can’t even go to _school_ yet. Poe comes running into the house one afternoon, full of news about Mr. Klyaxos being allergic to bees and how they all had to e-v-a-c-u-a-t-e the classroom until he stopped expanding and how Mx. H’un taught them how to spell evacuate and allergies and a-n-a-p-h-y-l-a-x-i-s and then there was singing in the grass outside. But instead of just Pops there like it usually is when he comes home, Pops and Mama are both at the kitchen table drinking coffee, and Luke is sitting with them.

Poe forgets to breathe.

Luke notices him first, and grins. “Hey, Poe! Good to see you.”

“This is going to be incredible,” Pops mutters, which Poe doesn’t understand because Luke is _already_ incredible.

“Shh,” Mama says, pushing his head with her fingertips.

Luke ignores them, which is the right thing to do whenever grownups are talking anyway. “How’ve you been? Your mom tells me you’re in school now. Pretty neat.”

Poe wants to say something, but _mostly_ what he wants to do is drag Luke out into the backyard where Mama’s A-wing is and show him all the controls that he’s learned, tell him all about vectors and velocity (which he can spell!) and make sure Luke knows that Poe is going to be the best pilot just like he said he would be. And he wants to show Luke how big the tree’s gotten (it always seems the same size to Poe but Mama’s got holos that she takes every year on Poe’s birthday next to his tree, and Poe is getting taller but his tree is almost as tall as the house now, blue-green leaves soft in the breeze) and tell him all about the big storm this summer that struck the tree and tore off a whole branch leaving a hole where Poe can store his best snacks and maybe secret messages if he ever becomes a spy and explain to him about the f-e-r-t-i-l-z-e-r that he’s researched that’s the best in the whole system even though Pops says it’s too expensive and that weird old tree doesn’t need to get any bigger. Maybe Luke can convince Mama and Pops to buy it anyway. And most shameful of all, Poe wants to ask Luke if he still wants to play with his spaceship models, even though he’s six and a half years old and only babies play with that stuff anymore.

After a few more seconds of agonized silence, Mama gets up from her chair. “Do you want some milk and cookies?”

“Yes please,” says Poe, instinctively, at the same time as Luke, which makes Pops and Mama and Luke all laugh for some reason.

Poe gets to tell his story about Mr. Klyaxos and Luke even asks to hear the song that he learned today, even though Mama just groans and Pops says, “You’re a real glutton for punishment,” which is weird. Poe sings him his song and Luke says he’s got a very strong voice, and then Poe can’t help himself anymore and he grabs Luke’s hand (he still has a glove on it, Poe wonders why just his one hand is cold when the rest of him is so warm) and pulls him outside into the sunshine.

This time the tree is big enough that Luke can climb up too, which nobody but Poe ever does and it makes Poe’s heart pound to think that there’s somewhere that’s just for him and Luke. Luke thinks that the secret hideyhole is great, and his legs dangle down, his arms crossed and resting on another branch. “This is an excellent tree, Poe. You’ve done a wonderful job with it.”

Poe stares at his feet where they’re swinging too, carefully keeping the same rhythm as Luke’s. “My dad won’t let me get fertilizer for it to help it grow more. He says it’s too expensive for some weird old mystic tree.” He pauses. “What’s mystic mean?”

Luke smiles, and rests his chin on his arms. “It means… different. Special.”

“Are you mystic?” Poe asks.

Luke laughs. “That’s a good question. You know,” he continues, before Poe can press the issue, “I have a tree just like this one.”

Poe gasps. “Really? With the blue and green leaves and everything?”

“Really,” Luke confirms, nodding. “In fact, your mother and I got the trees at the same time.”

“So your tree and my tree are twins?”

“Exactly,” says Luke. His eyes crinkle up when he smiles and Poe feels warm right down to his toes, but he can’t let himself get distracted.

“Is your tree as big as mine?” Poe asks. Having a tree that’s twins with Luke’s is great, but he wants his tree to be the best.

Luke shakes his head, solemn. “No. My tree is still in stasis; it’s smaller than you are. I have to find a home that’s as special as this one before I can plant it, and it’s taking me a long time. That’s why I wanted to come and visit, so I could get tips for what I should do once I find that place.”

So Poe tells him exactly what kind of fertilizer to get and how he needs to read to it every night and water it every morning and make sure to thank it for being the best tree it can be. “Because it’s yours, so you’ve got to take care of it,” Poe says.

“I remember,” Luke says, reaching out with his left hand and touching one of the leaves. “All right, Poe, I’ll do exactly as you advise. And maybe one day my tree will be _almost_ as nice as yours.”

“Both of them are nice,” Poe says, determined to be fair now that he knows his tree is better. “Come on, let me show you my spaceship!”

Luke is, sure enough, amazed by Poe’s skill. “You’re already a pilot, I can tell,” he says. He runs his hand over the dashboard. “You’ll be in an X-wing in no time.”

“Have you flown an X-wing?” Mama has, but she only ever says that Poe can’t fly one until he’s mastered the A-wing.

“I have,” says Luke. “Quite a few of them, in fact.”

“Are you really Luke _Skywalker_?” Poe asks, because at school they’d seen newsvids of the battles, and sometimes they interviewed Commander Organa and sometimes General Solo and sometimes Commander Skywalker, and in class Poe sat and squinted at the pictures that looked like Luke, but flat and distant and faded. He asked Mama about it once and she said he would just have to ask Luke when he came back, and Poe was so dumbstruck at the thought that Luke was coming back to him that he mostly forgot about the other thing. But now, seeing Luke at the controls, he remembers.

Luke doesn’t answer for a minute; he just stares out the viewport, like he’s watching for something. “That’s a good question, too. Yes, that’s my name.”

“Why’s it a good question? Are you the Last Jedi? Did you really blow up the First Death Star? Did you murder the Emperor _and_ Darth Vader? Did you fight the Stormtroopers with the Ewoks?” That’s the most important question, really, because Ewoks are _cool_.

Luke laughs and picks him up out of the pilot seat, swinging him up over his shoulder. “Come on,” he says as he sets him down on the ground. “If we don’t get back to the house, your mom and dad will eat all the rest of the cookies without us.”

He leaves again after dinner, even though Poe makes an excellent case for why he should stay over and even offers to let Luke sleep in his room. Pops greets this with a guffaw and Mama tsks something about corrupting the youth and Luke says he would love to stay but he has to go back and read his tree a bedtime story. “Just like you told me to do.”

Pop snorts. “What?” Mama pushes his head.

But before Luke leaves for good, he goes out to his shuttle and comes back inside with something behind his back. “Here,” he says, presenting it to Poe. It’s a blast helmet, like the holos of Mama when she used to wear them. “If you’re going to be an ace pilot, you’re going to need one of these.”

“Get out of here, you cradle-robber,” Mama laughs and kisses Luke on the cheek, which Poe didn’t even know was a thing you could do to other grownups but he wonders how old he has to be before _he_ can kiss Luke on the cheek.

Luke laughs and hugs Pops goodbye, then bends down and puts his helmet on Poe’s head. “Remember to always trust your gut and fly with your heart.”

“That’s _terrible advice_ ,” Mama huffs, but Poe nods so hard that the helmet almost comes off, and Luke smiles. “And I’ll let you know how my tree does. Thanks for all the tips.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, but even being polite doesn’t keep Luke there any longer. Poe runs out into the yard and watches Luke take off, his astromech droid beeping irritably.

“Well kid,” Pops says, plucking the helmet off his head and handing it to him, “What do you think of your buddy Luke there?”

“I think he’s the most mystic person in the whole world,” Poe says.

  


*

  


The third time Poe meets Luke isn’t at Poe’s house at all. Mama and Pops have decided they’re all going to take a vacation to Naboo, someplace that’s far away from Poe’s friends, Poe’s A-wing, and Poe’s tree. “It’s just for two weeks,” Mama says, bemused, while Pops tries to pack.

Poe very carefully unpacks everything Pops puts in the suitcase and places it back on the shelves or in the drawers that he can reach. “What happens if my tree dies while I’m gone?” he demands. “Or if somebody steals the A-wing?”

“Nobody, but _nobody_ is stealing the A-wing,” Pops says, putting him in a headlock while Mama goes back into the drawers and pulls out everything he just put away. He tries to wriggle free but Pops just rubs his knuckles on Poe’s head, laughing. “And nothing bad’ll happen to that damn tree.”

“We’ll have Abuelo come by and read it the newspaper every morning,” Mama promises.

“That’s totally not what he’s supposed to do!” Poe wails, and slumps in Pops’s grip, defeated.

Mama sighs, and looks at Pops. “How Luke thinks _Poe_ is supposed to be a good influence is beyond me.”

“Luke?” Luke thinks he’s a good influence? “Are we going to see Luke?”

“Great,” Pops says, and lets him go.

Which is how Poe finds out that Luke is coming _with_ them to Naboo — “meeting us there,” Mama corrects — and his sister and her husband and their son, who is only six, not eight like Poe is, but Luke suggested they all get together for some “much-needed downtime.” Which Poe agrees with, because school is really hard now. He has been having a lot of serious problems with multiplication. “And Luke is going to leave _his_ tree behind,” Mama points out. “So if Luke thinks it’s okay, then your tree should be fine, don’t you think?”

After that, Poe has to work extra hard to get his parents packing fast enough so they can _go_ already.

“I think he’s trying to fob Poe off on this poor Ben kid,” Pops mutters as they load up the shuttle, Poe being careful to put his helmet in the cubbyhole so that he can show Luke how he cleaned it up and repainted it (well, Mama repainted it but he supervised).

“Pretty sure it’s too late for that,” Mama says, and tells Poe to say goodbye to his tree because liftoff is in five.

Poe runs out into the backyard, feeling the warmth of his tree reach out to him as he gets closer. He wraps his arms around its trunk and gives it a kiss, like grownups do on the cheek. “I’ll be back in two weeks,” he tells it, “And I left a stack of all your favorite stories on the table and I told Abuelo to read those to you and not the newspaper, but please don’t die if he just reads you the newspaper. And I set up a sprinkler because he might forget about watering so you should be okay. I love you. Don’t be sad while I’m gone, I’m going to a whole other planet and I’ll get you new stories to read, okay?”

Mama lets him take them out of atmo, standing between her knees in the pilot’s seat and the bank of controls, and even lets him stay up front as she makes the jump to hyperspace. He watches the stars stretch and spin around him and he thinks that there can’t be anything better in the whole galaxy than this feeling.

Naboo is full of beautiful pale buildings and bright sun, cheerful citizens who smile at Poe’s black curls and curious questions about the food, the dresses, what’s that man holding onto that balloon for? They land at the port in the capital and make their slow way along the boulevard, Mama frowning at the directions in her pad. “I don’t think this is right,” she announces at last, after they’ve been walking for more than an hour. Poe isn’t tired, exactly, but he keeps having to switch holding his helmet from one hand to the other and he’s afraid he’ll drop it. (Pops keeps offering to put it on the packdroid, but Poe won’t dishonor himself like that.)

Pops peers over her shoulder, then they all three look up at the palace gates they’re standing in front of. “No way,” he says, but it sounds a little bit like a question.

“Maybe it’s where the princess is staying, and she’ll tell us where _we’re_ staying,” Mama says, pressing a button at the gate.

“Maybe Luke is going to get a foot up his ass the next time I see him,” Pops mutters.

The gates open to reveal a big, lush lawn that reminds Poe of home, everything green and beautiful, even though it isn’t messy like Poe’s backyard. A tiny little lady with long brown hair and a clever smile is coming down the steps and across the pathway. Mama and Pops both bow low, and Poe (very worried about dropping his helmet) does the same thing.

The tiny lady makes a scolding noise as she pulls Mama and Pops up. “Just because I’m horribly abusing my relatives in order to score this place,” she says, waving her hand at the palace behind her, “Doesn’t mean I’m anyone worth bowing to.”

“That’s not why anyone bows to you, your highness,” Pops says.

The tiny lady laughs. “You’re a charmer, Dameron. I like you. Shara, it’s wonderful to see you again. And this must be Poe. I’m Leia. My brother Luke has told me so much about you.”

Poe straightens up so he can look closer at her. She doesn’t look much like Luke, but her smile is nice and he can feel that same warmth from her as he does from his tree, or from Luke — although his tree is like sitting in front of a fireplace and Luke is like the hottest day of summer, where you can’t breathe for a minute while the heat melts into you. This tiny lady is more like a blanket straight from the fresher, toasty. “Hi, Leia,” he says, and sticks out his hand the way Mama has taught him.

She takes it firmly. “I hope you don’t mind staying with us,” she says, addressing all three of them. “It was Luke’s idea, but I think it’s a very good one. We could use some company.”

Mama looks aggrieved. “He said we were staying somewhere — well, he sure as hell didn’t mention a palace, that son of a bitch.”

“That’s my mother you’re talking about,” says Leia, grinning. “He said you’d never agree to stay with us if we told you the street number.”

“Your Highness,” Mama sighed, “This isn’t a a street number - it’s an entire _street_.”

Leia shrugs. “This was the smallest palace they would give us,” she says. “So we’ll all have to make do. Speaking of which, Shara, Her Majesty has already issued a royal decree that the three of us have drinks at the Palace tomorrow night. Strictly saviors of Naboo only; no men allowed.”

“I tremble and obey, Your Highness,” Mama says, and Leia links arms with her, laughing as they lead the way up the stairs.

The visit doesn’t get off to a promising start; Poe is introduced to Leia’s even tinier son, who promptly runs away and hides under the couch where his dad is sitting.

“Yeah, this is pretty normal,” says Ben’s dad, whose name is Han and who wears an honest to gosh _blaster_ on his hip. Poe is pretty sure Han is the coolest person ever. “Don’t worry about it, kid. He’ll come out once he’s figured out you’re not going to bite his head off. There’s a playroom—“ and he waves vaguely around, “Somewhere, if you want to go find it.”

Poe does, desperately, because somewhere that’s a _palace_ is sure to have the most amazing playroom of all time. But he wants to see Luke first, so he just says, “Thank you, sir,” and goes to sit in a chair in a corner, putting his helmet on his lap.

Mama and Pops go talk to Han, but Leia crouches down next to his chair. “It’s all right if you want to go play,” she says, looking worried. “I’ll make sure he comes and finds you once he gets here.”

Once again temptation beckons, especially since Poe can see Ben peeking out from under his dad’s seat; there’s going to be limited time to have the playroom all to himself. But Poe’s duty is clear. “It’s okay,” he says. “I want to wait. It’s nice here.”

Leia glances up at Pops, who makes a complicated gesture. “All right, then,” she says, and goes to talk to the other grownups.

He’s not lying; they’re on the top floor of the palace, in a large room with no roof, just the walls meeting blue, clear sky. Even the sunlight looks different here on Naboo, brighter and clearer, and it limns everything with a golden sparkle that Poe’s never seen before. Despite that, it feels cool even out in the sun; Poe huddles in his seat and wishes he’d brought a jacket.

They get served fruit and cheeses and the grownups talk, and Ben eventually crawls out in order to have some food, then slowly creeps over to where Poe is still sitting, looking wary. Poe leans away from him; Ben feels hot and scratchy, like putting your hand too close to a candle.

“What’s that?” Ben asks, pointing at the helmet.

“A blast helmet,” Poe said, and doesn’t add, “duh,” because it’s important to be nice to young people.

“Why are you holding it?”

“Because I want to show it to Luke.”

Ben makes a face. “Why’d you wanna show it to Uncle Luke?”

Poe tries to do the math. If Leia is Luke’s sister that Mama talked about, and Ben is Leia’s son, does that mean that Luke is his uncle? He’s pretty sure it checks out, but he’s not happy about it. “Because I feel like it.”

“Can I see it?”

Ben’s hands are covered with fruit juice and bits of cheese; Poe holds the helmet away from his sticky fingers. “ _No_.”

Which starts the first (but not the last, by any means) fight between Poe Dameron and Ben Solo on this trip. By the time the grownups get them separated, Ben’s lip is bleeding and he has a handful of Poe’s hair clutched in his fist.

“Your Highness, General, I am so sorry—“ Mama says, as Pops checks him over for injury.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” he demands.

Poe frowns. “Those are both thumbs.”

“You’re fine,” Pops decides, and gets back to his feet. “He’s fine — how’s Ben?”

“He’s not going to be fine for much longer,” Leia’s saying grimly, Ben tucked neatly under one arm. He’s kicking a lot but it doesn’t seem to be doing much. “And please, don’t apologize; it’s not—“

“What’s going on?” says a voice from the doorway, and Poe looks around wildly for his helmet because Luke is _here_. Only now it’s on the floor, rolled away under a table, and even from here Poe can see fruit stains and dirt on it. He’s going to hate Ben Solo forever, he decides. An _infinity_ of forevers.

The grownups all go and greet each other and stand around talking (except for Leia, who announces that Ben is grounded until he can learn to accept “no” for an answer, so he might be in there until he dies, and takes him away still kicking and screaming), which gives Poe an opportunity to sneak over to the helmet and try to scrub it clean with the sleeve of his shirt.

“It looks all right to me,” Luke says from behind him. He sits down on the floor next to Poe and examines the helmet thoughtfully. “In fact, it looks better than it ever did when _I_ had it.”

Somehow that just makes things worse. Poe can feel tears pricking at his eyes. “But I put it in a special decontamination bath and rinse and I polished it and Mama repainted it with me helping and now it’s all ruined again,” he says, mortified at how he can’t control his own voice from getting high and thin and wailing.

Luke sighs and pulls Poe in for a hug, and Poe is way too old to be a crybaby but if it gets him a hug he’s willing to sacrifice his dignity a little bit. “I know how it feels to worry you’re disappointing someone,” Luke says into Poe’s hair. “You did a good job, okay? I promise.”

Poe nods against Luke’s shoulder, and tries to tuck himself in further. “Okay.”

“Are you cold?” Luke says, surprised. “You’re shivering.”

Poe thinks about it. “No,” he says. He’s not anymore; it feels like the sun’s come out, even though it’s been bright and cloudless all morning.

“For goodness sake,” Mama says, seeing them on the floor. “At least wait until he’s turned sixteen, Luke! There _are_ laws.”

  


*

  


The fourth time Poe meets Luke, Mama’s been dead for a week. Nobody _says_ that; they say she passed away, or she was taken too soon. Abuelo says that the goddesses of the air took her back into their own, and lights his candles to pray on the sacred mountain. Maybe that helps him feel better. But Poe is almost ten years old and he knows what that stuff really means. She’s dead. They scattered her ashes and that’s that.

Pops is at work. Poe should be at school but the first day he went back everyone looked at him funny, like he’d grown an extra head or lost an arm. When he came home there was nobody there, and when Pops got back a few hours later he didn’t ask how school was today, didn’t ask if he’d done his homework, just made dinner out of the ‘wave without saying anything. They ate in silence and when Poe looked up at Pops, Pops was staring at the wall right above Poe’s head, like Poe wasn’t even there.

After that, Poe didn’t see the point in going.

Instead he spends all day up in his tree, dragging up books to read, mostly books about flying and spacecraft specs. He doesn’t understand a lot of it, but he reads it out loud and his tree’s branches rustle in the wind, blue-green and safe. Sometimes there’s a minute that goes by where Poe forgets that his mom is dead and burned up, and he has to remember really fast because forgetting is worse than anything else.

That morning he climbs up with a mechanic’s guide to the X-wing and a bag of _juavos_ juice, making plans to maybe come down for dinner, but he doesn’t think Pops would care, really. He can climb so high up in his tree now that nobody can come and get him down, here in the highest branches that are still young and bend under his weight. This high up, he can see the faint outline of Yavin’s gas giant against the sky, can see the other moons come up. He reads for a little while but mostly he just watches the sky, thinks about Mama and how she’d tell him stories of being up there, away and alone and free.

He doesn’t remember going to sleep, only waking mid-fall; the branches whipping at his face and leaves tearing in his fists as he tries to grab hold. He opens his mouth to scream and he’s not falling anymore, floating a few inches away from the ground. He puts his hands out carefully, his palms flat against the damp earth, and he can feel himself slowly drifting down the rest of the way, until he’s on his hands and knees, heart pounding. He looks up at his tree. “Did you do that?” he asks.

“I did,” says Luke. Poe scrambles to his feet and sees him at the backdoor, leaning against the frame.

“What are you doing here?” he blurts, rubbing his hands to get the dirt off. He can feel his knees sticky with mud and there’s a pain on his cheek, but it’s not important.

“I came to see you,” Luke says. “I got here a little while ago, but I didn’t want to bother you until you were ready to come down.”

“Did you—“ Poe gasps in realization, “Did you _use the Force_?”

Luke smiles sadly and Poe remembers, he can’t believe he forgot _again_ , no wonder Mama died and burned up and left him if he can’t even keep remembering she’s dead. “Just a little bit,” he says, putting his thumb and forefinger together, and Poe tries to smile back but he can’t, he’s not good enough at pretending and his pants have mud on them and the last time they got cleaned was when Mama cleaned them and he’s dirty and tired and for the first time he feels too small, like he can’t fit everything inside anymore.

He crumples onto the ground, curling himself up against his tree, and cries — he can’t help it, he doesn’t want to but it’s like they’re pulled out of him every time he tries to breathe and he’s panicking, because what if he can’t ever breathe again without feeling like this? What if the rest of his life, for whole entire years, nothing happens without hurting?

Suddenly there’s arms wrapped around him, and he’s lifted up into Luke’s lap with his face hidden against his shoulder. It should be mortifying but Poe grabs handfuls of Luke’s jacket and holds on. He can hear Luke saying something, even though he can’t hear the words over the sound of his own sobbing. After a long time — Poe doesn’t know how long, maybe years — he can feel his breath coming back, gulping for air. He could turn his head and stop pressing his face into Luke’s chest, but he’s too warm, he just wants to stay here for as long as he can. Luke’s chin is resting gently on his head and he’s quiet now, not saying anything.

“Am I going to feel like this forever?” he asks, muffled in the fabric of Luke’s shirt.

He can feel Luke shake his head. “No, not forever. You’ll feel like this for a long time, though. I’m sorry about that. But you will, one day, feel better than this.”

Something about that is reassuring; that even though it might last for a whole other week or even a month, maybe, Poe won’t feel like this until he’s a million years old. Then an ugly thought occurs to him. “How do _you_ know?”

“My family was killed,” Luke says, matter-of-fact.

“Your parents?” Poe asked, astonished. Nobody had ever told him _that._ “Were they murdered by the Empire?”

“Well — yes, I suppose. In a way. But they both died when I was just a baby. I didn’t really know my parents at all,” Luke says. At this, Poe actually lifts his head to gape at Luke. He can’t imagine not _ever_ having Mama. Luke sees his expression and pushes the hair out of Poe’s eyes, smiling. “But I still had a family, even after that. My aunt and uncle raised me. I loved them very much.”

Even through watery eyes, Poe makes a face. He can’t imagine being raised by Tio Hous, who smells like licorice and farts all the time. “Did _they_ get murdered by the Empire?”

“Yes,” says Luke, tucking Poe’s head back under his chin. Poe presses in closer, curling into the warmth and squeezing his eyes shut. “They died when I was nineteen.”

“They both died? At the same time?” Poe can’t imagine that. Pops has been quiet and angry and doesn’t talk, and Poe wished last night that Pops had died instead of Mama, but thinking of both of them gone is worse than anything he can imagine. “What did you do?”

Luke sighs. “I was very sad for a long time. I got better, but I still miss them.”

“Did you cry?”

“Of course.” Luke looks down at him, very serious. “It’s important to cry, Poe. Your mother was a wonderful person. She made things better while she was alive; a bright spot in our galaxy. You’re right to be sad that she’s dead.”

“Pops said we can’t dwell on it,” Poe says. “He says we have to be brave because that’s what she would want.”

Luke makes a considering noise, and shifts him slightly in his lap, settling his back against Poe’s tree. “Your father is a very smart man,” he says, and Poe is old enough that he knows there’s a “but” coming. “But don’t ever think it’s brave not to cry, Poe. Stronger people than you or me or even your dad have to cry all the time, and they’re better for it.”

Poe goggles at the idea that anyone is stronger than Luke, but he doesn’t argue the point, just curls up tighter and keeps his eyes closed. They stay there until the shadow of the house spreads over them, until Poe can hear his father come home and call out his name. 

  


*

  


The first time Luke rescues Poe, he’s three systems away from Yavin and trying to sell his miniature pod-racer collection to a couple of merchants who say they can take him a lot further away than that. They’re just about to strike a deal when Poe feels something spreading across his cheeks, like the beginnings of a blush. He looks up and sees a hooded figure near the front door looking around, and he knows he has to get out of that cantina.

“Sorry, gotta go,” he tells the traders, grabs his collection and dashes for the rear exit (all the best books talk about how space pirates always find out where the rear exit is). He’s out the door and safe when a hand grabs the collar of his shirt.

“Going somewhere?” and it’s _not_ _Luke’s voice_ , it’s a stranger, tall and grinning and Poe doesn’t know what’s in his other hand but he doesn’t want to find out, so he throws his collection at the man’s face, yelling and kicking at his shins. He should have bought a blaster. The man just laughs — and then chokes, letting Poe go to claw at his throat. He collapses to his knees, his eyes wide and terrified. Poe skitters back and bumps into someone.

Luke, dressed in a black robe with the hood up, lifts his eyebrow at him. “Fancy seeing you here,” he says, and with a wave of his hand the man is gasping for air again. “I’d leave this system if I were you,” Luke tells him, and Poe knows that’s not just advice. “Go learn how to fish. Live better.”

The man staggers to his feet and goes running up the alley, away from them. Luke lets his hand fall before turning back to Poe. He doesn’t look all that happy to see him.

“What brings you to the Lorentian system?” Poe says, aiming for casual.

Luke doesn’t answer, just blinks. “You’re taller,” he observes, as though it’s surprising.

“I’m twelve,” Poe points out. He’s twelve in three weeks, anyway, which is practically twelve.

“You’re a _menace_ ,” Luke contradicts. “Go get your toys.”

Poe wants to argue that they’re _collectibles_ , but after getting dumped in the questionable puddles of the alleyway, he’s pretty sure nobody’s going to trade for them. He goes and gets them anyway, puts them back in his knapsack where they’ll stink up his two changes of underwear and three pairs of socks and his knife. Luke watches him the whole time, not saying a word, and after Poe gets everything he turns and walks down the alley. Poe looks at the cantina door, wonders if he can make a break for it before Luke chokes him almost to death, too.

“Don’t even think about it,” Luke says over his shoulder.

Sighing, Poe trudges along behind him. He expects them to go to the port and whatever fancy shuttle Luke brought with him, but instead Luke makes his way to the empty junkyard where Poe had stashed the A-wing, its motivator completely fried and about as useful as a paperweight for talvoths. “How did you know it was here?” Poe asks. “Did the Force tell you or something?”

Luke snorts. It’s not a sound Poe would expect, coming from this black-hooded figure who looks like Luke but is a lot scarier. “Your father has a tracker on it. You really should do a more thorough pre-flight inspection, Poe.”

Poe scowls up at Luke. “So what, you work for my father now? Go get him stuff he can’t bother to get himself?”

That brings Luke up short. “Poe,” he says, reproachful. “Your father is very worried about you.”

“He doesn’t even show up when I _run away_ ,” Poe says. “He doesn’t _care_ , he just doesn’t want anybody to think he _forgot_ about me.”

“He didn’t forget,” Luke says, reaching out to touch Poe’s shoulder.

He jerks away. “No, he just _wants_ to. That’s why I left. That way he doesn’t have anybody he has to _deal with_.”

Luke sighs. “How are you more trouble than all thirty-seven of my students combined?” he mutters, like he’s not even talking to Poe. “Come on,” he adds, “Let’s go fix your ride.”

“Students?” What students?

So they spend the next three hours pulling out bits of the ship’s engine and banging on things with hammers while Luke tells him about the brand new Jedi Academy. “I’ve got kids as young as five and grownups older than me,” he explains, frowning at a burned-out compressor. He’s long since discarded his cloak and there’s an oil smudge on his cheek, which Poe can’t stop staring at. “The old academy used to just take children, but it doesn’t really make sense — I mean, sure, if you want a bunch of Jedi who don’t know how to crack a joke. But just because you’re older doesn’t mean you can’t learn. Look at me.”

Poe _is_ looking, and this time Luke catches him doing it. But instead of frowning or asking why he’s staring, he smiles. “Thanks for listening, by the way. You’re pretty good at it. Get ready to reconnect the secondary mains, will you?”

Nobody except for Luke ever talks to Poe like a grownup, but that would probably sound like something a little kid would say, so instead Poe asks, “Are they all humans?” as he climbs onto the pilot’s seat so he can reach up the secondary mains. They’re almost done, and faster than Poe thought it would take. Maybe he could convince Luke to be his mechanic if the whole academy for Jedi doesn’t pan out.

“No, actually,” Luke says. “There’s —“ he pauses, stares up at the ceiling in thought. “There’s more humans than there are any other species, but only by one. We’ve got five humans, four Ranats, and everyone else there’s either one or two. Oh, except the Ewok triplets.”

It sounds amazing. “Where is it?”

Luke gives him a look, which Poe doesn’t think is as intimidating with that smudge on his cheek. “If I tell you and you run away there, your father’s going to be mad at me.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll just run away back _here_ and find that scary man again and get horribly murdered,” Poe counteroffers, and Luke laughs.

“It’s on Endor, for the moment,” he says, tossing Poe the harmonic puller as he gets up. “But we’ve been thinking about relocating.” He leans against the pilot seat, peering up at the wiring Poe’s splicing together. “My sister is taking over the base on Yavin Four; she wants me to bring the academy there.”

“To Yavin Four? You’d live on Yavin Four? All the time?” Poe squeaks, and wobbles on the seat. Luke grabs at his waist to steady him and Poe feels hot all over, blushing furiously, but Luke Skywalker is smiling up at him with an oil smudge on his cheek. Poe wonders if Luke would let him wipe it off with the sleeve of his shirt, careful, leaving him clean.

Luke lets go of him. “Leia says it’d be more convenient to have the Academy and her Institute under one roof. I think she just wants me to teach some of her classes for free.”

“So if you move the academy to Yavin Four, you’ll be one of the teachers at the Institute?” Poe asks, trying to sound casual even though it’s the most important question he’s ever asked in his whole life.

Luke shrugs. “Perhaps. By the way, are you still thinking about going to the Institute? You used to talk about wanting to be a pilot for the Fleet.”

Poe can’t really handle that question right now, so he concentrates on the last two wires, catching them and letting them twine together the way the old bioelectrodes like to do. There’s a wheezing sound and then the engine comes whirring back on, the lights blinding. Luke grins up at him, extends his hand to help Poe down.

Poe takes his hand and jumps.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The sixth time Poe meets Luke, it’s the first day at the New Republican Military Institute. Pops is sitting with him in the huge assembly hall, biting his thumb and looking nervous. “Pops, it’s gonna be fine,” he says.

“How is it _you’re_ reassuring _me_?” Pops asks, swinging an arm around Poe’s shoulders. “I never understood you and your mom’s love for this stuff.”

It’s still startling when Pops talks about Mama like that, casual, like he’s not dying at the thought of her, but Poe smiles and leans into him. “I’m not going to be flying anything for months, probably,” he tells him. “I’ll be fine.”

Next to him, a purple-skinned woman with orange fins along the sides of her head, snorts. “Try _years_ ,” she says. “Five years minimum training, and the first two they practically staple your feet to the ground.”

Poe thinks she’s got to be pulling his leg. “I can already fly,” he says.

The woman — girl, really, she’s maybe two cycles older than him at most — gives him a pitying look. “What, like an A-wing or something?”

Poe opens his mouth to defend his A-wing when the people up on the dais stop standing around talking to each other and turn their attention to the students and parents in the crowd. General Organa stands at the lectern, looking tinier than ever next to her husband and — Poe elbows his dad in the side. “Dad, is that _Lando Calrissian_?”

“He teaches here,” the purple girl says smugly.

“Friends, students, parents,” the general says, her voice echoing over the speaker, “Let me welcome you all.” It’s a nice speech; a little boring, but short, and afterwards they’re told to report to their sections. Poe hugs his dad goodbye and reminds him to water his tree and play recordings for it while he’s gone.

A Sullustan man is waiting for them, a board in his hand. “Welcome welcome welcome,” he says in Basic, before switching to Sullustan. “I am Captain Nunb and I’ll be in charge of you lot! We’ll start with a tour! Then you’ll know what’s what and what’s where and off we go!”

The purple girl is in his section, it turns out, and her name is Kala. “I thought you were ahead of me,” Poe says. “Since you know so much about the Institute already.”

She shrugs and pops her gum. “My older sister went here, graduated a few years ago.”

“She’s in the Republican Fleet?” Poe asks. For all that his own parents were fighters in the Rebellion, the Fleet feels like something newer, more exciting. “Has she fought in any battles yet?”

Another pop of the gum. “She did. She’s dead though. Got shot down.”

She doesn’t sound angry, or like she’s trying to make him feel bad. Still, Poe isn’t sure what to say. “Oh.” He thinks about it. “Did she complete the mission?”

Kala smiles, showing blue-black teeth. “Yeah,” she says.

Captain Nunb takes them through the mess hall, past a row of ugly prefab buildings — “There is where things are learned! Excellent places! Very very dull on the inside! You have all seen rooms before!” — and into the school hangar, a huge cave whose walls look a lot older than the base. Inside is every kind of second-hand scrapyard ship, but Poe itches to climb aboard each of them, run his hands over the controls and see how they worked. “This is the forbidden zone!” Captain Nunb announces cheerfully. “Not one of you is to set foot in here until you have mastered the theoreticals! Which you may never do! I will not suspend you this time because I brought you in myself! But next time! Suspension!”

Poe and Kala and everybody else roll their eyes but follow him back out of the hangar, Poe with a look back just for a second. There’s an old X-wing in there, black and orange and clearly well past its prime, but Poe can feel something hot in his stomach just thinking about it.

Which is why he doesn’t really process the sound of breaking stone until they’re almost at the training field, or notice how warm it’s gotten.

A dozen or so people, from little kids to one old lady who looks like she might die any minute, are lined up in a ragged row, like a game of Red Rover or Hokan’s Penny. Facing them are three people; two with some kind of miniaturized catapult system and a big pile of rocks each, and one with gold-brown hair and his own rockpile.

“Remember, you need to reach out and sense when to act. Don’t try to be the fastest one, or the best. You’re all much stronger when you act together. Ready?” He lifts his hand; three boulders the size of a small child go sailing up and directly toward the row.

Even though Poe knows exactly who that figure is with his back turned toward them, there’s still an impulse to rush forward. But before he can do anything (and what would he do, exactly?) two of the rocks stop midair, hovering for a moment before dropping.

The third one explodes; there’s a muted “sorry” from one of the students.

“Skywalker!” Captain Nunb bellows, now that rocks aren’t flying around. Luke turns and blinks at his audience, but before Poe can wave or smile or die awkwardly Captain Nunb has walked in front of the catapults — or maybe they’re trebuchets — and flung out his arms, like somehow he can protect the Jedi students just by glaring at Luke. “What is the meaning of this!”

“Hey, Nein,” says Luke, looking cheerful. “Sorry for taking over the field; we got an infestation of tunnel sharks on the Academy grounds. I didn’t think you’d mind,” he adds doubtfully.

Captain Nunb clearly minds. “On this the first day of our new class!”

“Oh,” Luke says, and looks over at Poe’s section. “That’s today?”

“Are you okay?” Kala whispers to him.

Poe starts. “What? Yeah. Why?”

“You look like you’re freaking out.” She gives him a dubious look. “You’re not like, afraid of Skywalker, are you? He’s totally harmless.”

“No he’s not,” Poe says, probably too fast. “I mean, I’m not afraid of him. I know him. We’re friends.”

Kala makes a noise with her gum. “Yeah, the way he hasn’t even noticed your existence really makes that obvious.”

Meanwhile, Captain Nunb is still yelling. “This is so very dangerous for you and also for your students! What do you mean by terrorizing them!”

Luke shrugs; he’s tossing a rock the size of his head from one hand to another. It takes just a fraction of a second too long, the gravity being played with by some other force. “I prefer my lessons a little more practical than a flight simulator, I guess,” he says, and _finally_ catches sight of Poe. “Excuse me,” he says to Captain Nunb; he leaves the rock hanging in midair and cuts through Poe’s section to reach out and grab Poe’s hand. “You made it!” he says, grinning — not down at him. Luke seems to notice it, too. “And you’re—“

“Taller,” Poe finishes at the same time, feeling himself smiling helplessly back. Instead of all black, Luke’s wearing the same brown and grey uniform as his students, albeit with a tan jacket over the top. He looks older — not _old_ , but steadier. He looks happy.

Luke laughs, and claps him on the shoulder. “All right, enough favoritism. Folks!” he shouts, turning back to his students, “Let’s pack up and head out. We’re making the regulars nervous.”

Just then the rock that was hovering starts moving; slowly, not fast enough to get hit by, but unmistakably toward Luke, who frowns and waves his hand. The rock drops with a thump at his feet and he stares at his students.

Poe looks too, curious; but they all look equally confused, with the exception of one kid with black hair and a sour face, who isn’t looking at Luke at all. He’s glaring at Poe, and Poe remembers that glare from a snot-nosed little kid who tried to steal his helmet. He waves cheerfully and Ben looks away, kicks at a stone near his foot.

Luke catches it too, and heaves a sigh. “Sorry about that, kids,” he says, to Poe’s group. “We’re mostly benign, I promise. I’m Luke Skywalker, by the way, and I won’t be training any of you until your third year, but you’re always welcome to drop by the academy and use our students for target practice. As you can see, they’re getting pretty good at it.”

Kala nudges Poe. “Are you going to swallow your tongue?” she asks. “I hear that’s what humans do when their brain stops working.” 

  


*

  


After that there are too many meetings to count, although Poe tries, keeps as many of them as he can locked away under his ribcage. Luke is in and out of the Institute every day, working with only a handful of cadets but willing to answer questions from anyone. Captain Ayla says “absolutely not, stop _asking_ , Dameron” when Poe brings up the idea of getting moved ahead so he can take classes with him, but most of the time he’s too busy as it is.

Besides, Poe can always tell when he’s nearby, warmth spreading from his head to his toes and curling around him; most days that’s enough to carry him through. “It’s fucking creepy when you do that,” Kala observes one day, wriggling into her uniform. They’d claimed each other as roommates out of a mutual unspoken horror of everyone else in their section, and got along very well despite disliking each other enormously.

Poe pauses mid-stretch. “What? What’d I do?”

Kala just stares at him, not even her third eye blinking. “Skywalker’s nearby, isn’t he?”

It’s on the tip of Poe’s tongue to say yes, because he _is_ , Poe can feel his skin prickling with the sense of him. “I dunno,” he tries instead.

“Yeah, okay,” Kala snorts.

The work is hard, a lot harder than any of his teachers had said it would be, but Poe quickly finds a rhythm to his days, studying and training and carefully doling out encounters with Luke only after he finishes a paper or sets a new personal best on the obstacle course.

It’s strange to see Luke in this context, though, surrounded by people who expect him to be Luke Skywalker, the Last Jedi and Savior of the Galaxy. There’s an actual _temple_ just outside the base called the Order of the New Faith that has crappy ceramic figurines of Luke in all their alcoves, and the ancient Church of the Jedi has apparently increased its membership tenfold since the Battle of Endor. And even amongst the students, where he’s just Professor Luke, there’s a reverence that Poe can see grates on him, holds him at a distance from everyone else. So he cuts the line at Luke’s office hours pretending to have questions about power converters, and Luke shakes his head every time and lets him do it.

“You and Ben are the only ones who seem to think waiting in line is for other people,” he sighs.

“Yeah, but you don’t mind when _I_ barge in,” says Poe, confident. He can’t imagine Ben being anyone’s favorite, but the entire Institute and half the Academy voted Poe Homecoming Ruler last year.

“I mind when both of you do it,” Luke says. It’s unconvincing, but he flaps his hands at Poe anyway. “Go, you’ve infuriated my _actual_ students for long enough, get out of here.”

Over time Poe gets a reputation amongst his teachers for tenacity and a near-encyclopedic knowledge of flight maneuvering, and a reputation amongst his classmates for being “fucking _insane_ , Poe, were you held over the pits of Rolaysia by the _ankle_ when you were a baby?” But he’s got friends and a purpose and every six weeks he goes home, has dinner with Pops and climbs up into his tree to wrap himself up in its warmth. Everybody said that being a teenager was awful, but Poe breezes through his first two years at the Institute. He can see the endless stretch of his future along the horizon, planted secure in the ground and reaching up into the sky all at once.

The only shadow cast is the one that his teachers discuss in the classrooms and that Poe’s friends whisper about over meals: the old Empire, which hasn’t done everybody a favor and just disappeared already. Fragments of the paramilitary structure are still out there, even while every system that ever lived under Imperial Command has denounced them. They all go by different names — the New Empire, Confederate Loyalists, the First Order, the Dawn Army — but they’re still trying to revive something that’s been dying for more than a decade now, and killing whatever they can reach in the meantime. It’s only a matter of time before the seething mass of disjointed fragments assembles itself back into something whole and huge and monstrous.

  


*

  


The first time Poe tries to seduce Luke is on his sixteenth birthday, after a big party in the dorms that spilled out into the quad and then onto the beach, everyone laughing and singing and discussing how much trouble they’d get into if they try to start a bonfire. A few of the Academy kids are there, the ones who sit in on some classes (because for all that they’re training to be Jedi and Poe’s training to be a soldier, they’re still teenagers, they still need to learn trigonometry and language extrapolation and political theory). Poe takes one sip of something called zero-point whiskey and vows to never drink again, so he can’t really blame anything but susceptibility when the conversation turns to what _else_ he could do to celebrate his coming of age.

“I’m offering,” says Jess, in between hiccuping laughter. There’s a chorus of agreement from most everybody around the fire, which makes Poe cover his face with his hands while Kala starts interrogating each of them in turn as to why they should be chosen for Poe Dameron’s Very Special First Time. There’s a lot of really graphic descriptions of porn that they’ve seen, but other than Uxon’l and Jess, not much in the way of actual experience.

Still, they’re all trying to take it seriously in between snorting laughter when Poe sees a trio of hooded figures making its way toward them from the direction of the Academy. “Shit,” says Dagna, and tries to bury her beer in the sand. The rest of the Jedi trainees under the age of sixteen get similarly panicked, but Poe wouldn’t really need that clue to tip him off as to who’s coming.

Sure enough, Luke and Lor San Tekka, along with the creepy guy whose name Poe can never get right, approach with expressions of amusement. “See?” Luke says, turning to the old creepy guy. “I told you we’d find them. And they seem mostly in one piece.”

“Indeed, Master Luke,” the creepy guy says, peering at everyone in turn. Poe’s only met him once, at the Academy; he never comes into the base and hardly ever leaves his rooms. Poe wonders what could’ve made him come out here just to retrieve a couple of AWOL students. “But I see your nephew is not amongst them.”

Luke glances around, frowning. “Anybody seen Ben tonight?”

Poe shook his head; he hears Kala mutter (not that quietly), “It’s not like we would’ve _invited_ him.”

The creepy old dude smiles bloodlessly. “You need not concern yourself, Master Luke. Lor San and I shall continue the search. I can sense him somewhere in the vicinity.”

“I’ll be right with you,” Luke says, and the two old guys hobble away. Slowly the Academy kids get to their feet, brushing the sand off, but Luke makes a stopping motion. “Stay and have fun, all right? You’ve all been working very hard. But I’m curious — what’s the occasion?”

“It’s my birthday,” Poe blurts.

Luke looks puzzled. “I know that,” he says, almost impatient. “But this is a lot of people and a lot of… beverages,” he says pointedly at where Dagna is still trying to bury her beer in the sand, “For one birthday.”

It’s a little hurtful until Poe remembers that Luke grew up on Tatooine, where slavers had once used birthdays as a kind of horrifying yearly review, trading and selling unwanted children once they were old enough to be valuable. Birthdays became private affairs first by necessity, then by tradition; he remembers a story Mama told about how surprised Luke had been to get a batch of cookies for his birthday one year, how he’d messaged her to ask if she was dying.

“We’re holding a contest to see who gets to deflower him,” Kala announces. “That really kicked things off.” In the dead silence that follows, she brightens. “You want to put yourself up for consideration, sir?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Poe says, trying to convince the Force to let him use it just this one time to choke Kala to death, even though her larynx isn’t connected to her respiratory system. Maybe he can drown her; if nothing else, she’ll be harder to hear under three feet of water. He doesn’t want to ever look at Luke’s face again, but he can’t help himself.

Luke is biting his lip, trying (not that hard) not to laugh. He catches Poe’s eye and it’s all Poe can do not to announce the winner, right there, tell everyone that they’ve done their best but that it’s all over. He can practically _hear_ himself blushing. “As kind as that offer is, I need to go find my stray nephew,” Luke says. “But you kids have fun tonight.”

“Are you going to make us do handstands tomorrow?” Dagna calls after him.

“You better believe it,” Luke calls back.

Poe is still trying to choose between throwing himself into the sea and throwing himself onto the fire when Kala says, “Oh my gosh, you should _totally ask him to do it,_ ” with the impassioned sincerity of the truly wasted.

Uxon’l gasps. “That is _brilliant_ ,” xe says, and Poe might be going crazy because everyone else around the fire is nodding solemnly.

“Guys, first of all, I’m not interested—“

“First of all, that’s a _lie_ ,” Kala interrupts, and he is never playing “Never Have I Ever” with her again.

“I’m not doing it with anybody tonight, least of all some old professor,” he protests, even though it kills him inside to defame Luke like that.

“I bet he’d be like, using the Force on you in bed and stuff,” Jess sighs. “So romantic.”

“How is that _romantic_?“

Dagna finally gets her beer back out of the hole with a shout of triumph. She takes a deep swig and says, “You’d be joining the ranks of our best and brightest, Dameron. I think we’d have to make you an honorary Jedi if you actually _succeeded_.”

“Wait — he’s slept with students before?” Poe can’t help the homicidal note in his voice but nobody seems to notice. Luke has occasionally mentioned past relationships, and Poe knows there was some girl last year that turned into a computer, or something, but Luke didn’t really ever want to talk about it. He can’t see Luke using his students as a dating pool, somehow.

Uxon’l laughs, xir belly shaking. “Many have _tried_ ,” xe says, waving xir tentacles dramatically, “But none have triumphed. He always kicks them out after giving them a lecture on the sanctity of the student-teacher relationship. Which is why if _you_ do it, we will bow before your legend.”

“I’m not doing it,” Poe says, but even to his own ears he doesn’t sound all that full of conviction.

Which leads inevitably to sneaking into the Academy dorms an hour and a half later with a handful of his fellow trainees and most of the Academy students still sober enough to walk. Luke has the first door on the right, and Poe’s been taking enough classes about defensive strategy to see the sense in that, although it seems kind of depressing that the only Jedi in the galaxy has a living space the same size as his students’.

“So is he in there?” Kala asks Poe, jerking her head at the door.

“No,” Poe answers before he can think about it, and Kala snickers. Everybody tries to shush her, which is a lot louder.

Dagna gets to work overriding the lock mechanism while Jess and Uxon’l give him last minute advice. “Remember, be bold, okay? None of this ‘oh please, Master Jedi’ stuff, you just tell him what you want and let nature take its course.”

This plan seems to rely an awful lot on nature, but before Poe can point this out the door opens and they all chivvy him inside, still shushing each other so loudly it’s a miracle nobody comes out to see what’s happening. Once inside, Dagna closes the door again, the crowd trapping Poe against one wall.

Kala claps her hands. “Right,” she says, “Clothes.”

“What?” Poe asks.

“I don’t want you losing your nerve and bailing, Dameron,” she says, making a “hurry up” gesture, “And this way it’ll be a lot harder for you to sneak back to the Institute without sealing the deal.”

“I could just steal some of Luke’s clothes,” Poe points out.

Kala gives this some thought. “Good point. We’ll have to take them, too.”

There are a lot of supporters of this plan, but fortunately Dagna and Jess and Uxon’l talk them out of it. Poe does end up surrendering everything except his boots, which Kala allows him to stash under the bed because she doesn’t want to carry them all the way back to their room. He feels ridiculous, and it doesn’t help when the non-human, non-Kala people in the group all give his newly-exposed body parts a curious look. “Huh,” Dagna says, “It really _does_ look like that.” (He’d feel worse, but Jess gives him two thumbs up and says, “Honey, you’ll do _fine_.”)

Just then Poe can feel something — it’s hard to focus, but Poe hisses, “I think he’s coming!” and Dagna fumbles at the door control.

Miraculously, there’s nobody outside yet, and the Institute kids dart for the rear exit while the Academy students make a run for their rooms or the stairway. Poe shuts the door, trying not to hyperventilate; if Kala gets caught, she’ll blab the whole thing. He makes a dive for the bed and slips under the covers, shivering a little, sick with adrenaline and terror and — oh shit, this was a bad plan, this was the _worst plan_ , why did he ever listen to those guys? Luke’s never going to speak to him after this.

He’s just about to climb out and hunt for some clothes — maybe he can borrow Luke’s spare robe — when the door opens.

Luke is frowning at the panel, his lightsaber held loosely in his hand; when he looks up and sees Poe, his expression clears somewhat, although what it clears into is hard to say. “Hello again,” he says, and steps inside.

Earlier, Dagna recounted the story of one Trileelum girl who had done this a few years ago; Luke had Force-heaved her out of his bed, still wrapped up in his blankets and sheets, and levitated her all the way back to her room, lecturing her about propriety the entire time. So maybe this is a good sign.

“Hi,” Poe says.

Luke shuts the door behind him; the lock flares red and Poe’s mouth goes dry. “So, I take it you decided on a candidate.”

“That was just a stupid joke,” Poe says, propping himself up on one elbow. The bed smells like Luke and he realizes he’s hard, aching, just from the way Luke is standing in the shadows. “There wasn’t any competition.”

“I’m flattered.” Luke says. He takes his robe off and hangs it neatly in on a hook, then turns back to regard Poe thoughtfully.

“Did you find Ben?” Poe asks, trying not to clutch at the covers. He’s bent one knee so it’s not totally obvious, but Luke can tell, and there’s a thrill of triumph in the way Luke glances down the length of the bed, like he can’t help it, before looking back at Poe’s face.

“He was pulling the legs off crabs down the beach a ways.” He pulls out the chair from under his desk and draws it up to the bed and sits down. Poe’s pretty sure that’s not a good sign, but he can’t tell if it’s a bad one.

“So, pretty much his normal self,” he says, breathless, close.

“Mm,” Luke agrees. “But somehow I don’t think you came here to talk about Ben.”

 _Be bold_ , was the advice, and Uxon’l has slept with four different people already. Poe throws the covers off, trying to arch his back the way Uxon’l advised. “You’re right. I came here for something else,” he says. It sounds incredibly bold. And sexy. He hopes.

“Oh, boy,” Luke says, squeezing his eyes shut (maybe because he’s overwhelmed with lust). “Poe, you have to put on clothes and — let’s start with that.”

“I don’t want to,” he says. The posing thing doesn’t seem to be working so he sits up and puts one hand on Luke’s neck, the other getting a grip on his shirt. “I want you.” He winds his hand into Luke’s hair, like he’s wanted to do forever, trying to pull him down on top of him. Poe’s warm, hot, burning up, nipping at the perfect curve of Luke’s lips. And for just a second it _is_ perfect; Luke is off-balance and mumbling something against Poe’s mouth, but Poe doesn’t care because _finally, finally, finally_.

Then Luke manages to get a word out: “Stop.”

Poe freezes. He can’t bring himself to move away. He searches Luke’s face, just a few inches from his. “I thought,” he says, biting his lip. He can still taste him; he shivers.

Luke huffs and brings his hand up to gently untangle Poe’s fingers from his hair. “I know,” he says, so kindly, and it’s that kindness that breaks Poe’s heart wide open.

“Don’t you like me?” he asks, and he hates how he sounds, _hates_ it.

“I do,” Luke says, taking both of Poe’s hands and clasping them in his. “I like you tremendously, Poe. You’re a wonderful young man.” He hesitates. “And you are very, _very_ young.”

“I’m sixteen years old,” Poe points out. “I’m not a child anymore.”

Luke smiles at him. “You’re right.”

“Then why not?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was seeing someone?” he asks, like it’s just occurred to him.

“No,” Poe scoffs, before he can stop himself.

Luke looks offended. “I _could_ be.”

“No,” Poe repeats, decisive. “Everyone you date turns out to be a spy, or possessed, or something.”

“I’ll have you know my last girlfriend was very nice.”

Privately, Poe thinks it’s just a matter of time before they find out she was really a Sith lord or an evil goddess. “And the one before that?”

Now Luke is looking uncomfortable, and he lets go of Poe’s hands to lean back in the chair. “Poe,” he sighs.

“Luke, I’ve been wanting this since—“

Luke lunges forward again to clap his hand over his mouth. “For the sake of your mother’s memory and the fact that somewhere out there, your father is probably having a _stroke_ ,” he orders, “Don’t finish that sentence.”

Poe grins, and bites at Luke’s hand. Luke swears and pulls it away. “You don’t have a girlfriend,” Poe tells him. “Or a boyfriend. Or anybody.” Then the implications of that set in. “So — so why don’t you want to—“

“I really can’t have this conversation with you while you’re naked and in my bed,” Luke announces abruptly. He gets up and goes to his closet, pulling open drawers and throwing clothing over his shoulder at Poe’s face. “Get dressed. How did you even get _in_ here?”

None of Poe’s friends would appreciate getting involved in this. “I’ve got talents,” he says, and pulls on a soft grey shirt and the worn brown trousers in his lap. He has a sudden pang of longing for the stark all-black getup Luke used to wear, instead of the neutral colors he favors now. The hard-on has mostly gone away — getting slapped by a pair of pants will do that — so he risks looking up to gauge Luke’s reaction.

Luke still hasn’t turned around. The line of his back is one long cord under tension, and Poe wonders if he pressed his fingers into the small of his back, softly, if everything in Luke would give way.

But Luke said “Stop,” and so Poe knots his hands behind his back and adds, “I’m dressed. Promise.”

Only then does Luke turn around, looking at Poe for a long moment before nodding. “Sit,” he says, pointing to the chair instead of the bed. Poe does as he’s told and waits for Luke to sit down, too.

He doesn’t; instead he leans against his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a deep breath. When he opens his eyes, he looks — just for a moment — incredibly old, and sad, and tired.

“Believe it or not, Poe,” he says, “I have a little speech I usually give people I find in here.”

Poe’s stomach is trying to turn itself inside out. “So there _are_ others.”

Luke makes a face. “But I’m not going to give you that speech.”

“Why not?” Poe demands. “If I’m just like everybody else who’s tried to sneak in here and have—“

“Because you’re not like everybody else,” Luke says, simply, like it doesn’t slice through Poe’s throat and leave him gasping. “You know that. You’re…” he looks away, out the window past the bed. “I don’t think you came in here hoping for a wild night with Luke Skywalker, the Last Jedi Master and Savior of the Galaxy.”

Poe can feel himself grin, even while he’s still reverberating with _you’re not like everybody else_. “I mean, I kind of did.”

Luke’s laugh is a soft exhale of air, the loudest thing in the room. “I don’t think it was _only_ that.”

“It wasn’t,” Poe says. “It — it isn’t.”

“I know,” Luke says again. “And that’s why I can’t, Poe. Not because I don’t care about you. But we’re very… different people, at very different points in our lives.”

“…Okay,” says Poe, because he’s pretty sure he’s getting dumped. “I mean — we all date different people though, don’t we? That’s kind of the whole point.”

Luke’s eyebrows furrow. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he admits, then holds up his gloved hand, a faint whirr as the fingers extend. “Not that that detracts from what I said.”

“You didn’t really say anything,” Poe feels compelled to point out. “Just that we’re different people with different lives — and sure! But that doesn’t mean it can’t work. Look at the general and Han,” which he realizes as he says it isn’t a great example, since currently Han is out doing some “secret mission” that everyone suspects is just getting him out of the general’s hair after their last big fight.

“We’re not like Leia and Han,” Luke says firmly. “We’re not like anything. We’re like two people, one of whom is a student and just barely turned sixteen, the other of whom is too—“

“What, too powerful? Too busy? Too important?”

“I was going to go with ‘too old,’” he says.

“You’re not too old.” Poe gets up, grabs Luke’s left hand and threads their fingers together. “You really aren’t.”

“Sit _down_ ,” Luke grits out as he shakes Poe’s hand off. Poe flops back into the chair, defeated, and Luke’s mouth quirks. “For someone who causes me this much grief, you’re remarkably biddable.”

“That sounds like a compliment,” Poe says, because it does.

“It’s not an insult,” Luke says. He folds his arms across his chest. “The fact is, Poe, I have a responsibility to you. I was very fond of your mother, and I count your father as one of my dearest friends. I’ve watched you grow up, and you’re _still_ growing up. I can’t ruin that just because you think this would be a good idea.”

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” says Poe. “It’s just the only one I’ve ever had.”

Luke looks like he can’t think of an answer to that.

Poe hunches further into the chair. He should’ve just kept drinking; having a hangover would be better than this. “I’m sorry, I’m just… I’m really tired, I guess.”

There’s a long pause, and Luke clears his throat. “It’s five clicks back to base, and I’m pretty sure none of my shoes will fit you.” Poe is about to reach under the bed and pull out his boots when Luke continues, “Sleep here. I’ve got work to do anyway. I’ll wake you in time for you to get back for your classes.”

There’s no way Poe’s admitting to the boots now, so he just says “Okay,” and lets Luke put him to bed, with clothes on this time but still sick to his stomach. He lies on his side, looking out the window as he hears Luke move softly around the room, picking up the chair and putting it back, sitting at the desk, rummaging around for papers or tablets. Then there’s nothing but the scratch of a pen and Luke’s hand, humming, just barely audible.

Poe shifts around on the bed and turns so he can see; Luke is bent over his desk, writing something down. Poe hopes it’s not his discharge papers. “Luke?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s hard to see from this angle, but he thinks he sees Luke’s eyes close for a moment. “It’s all right, Poe. I’m sorry too.”

Poe dreams of a blue-green tree; it holds him close in its soft branches, and lets him fall only to catch him just before he hits the ground.

  


*

  


The first time Poe saves Luke is an accident. He’s not even supposed to be on Academy grounds that day; his finals are coming up and every minute he doesn’t spend studying is a minute wasted. But the last time he stayed over at Uxon’l’s, he’d left one of his textbooks; and with the Jedi Academy off for a three-week break, Poe’s got very little choice but to engage in a little harmless B&E.

Poe is used to the Academy by now, used to feeling the students as faint blooms of heat as he passes, most of them indistinguishable from each other. And he’s never been able to ignore the warmth that spills out from wherever Luke is, but it doesn’t distract him from everything else the way it used to. Still, he pauses when he hears the sound of breaking glass; it’s coming from one of the classrooms, and he can feel Luke in the same direction.

There’s no logical reason to run; Poe thinks about how stupid he’s going to look when he comes sprinting through the door.

But instead of having to come up with an excuse for why he’s breathless and sweating, Poe gets to see Luke being strangled — by _Chewbacca,_ unbelievably, Chewbacca who sometimes sits in on Lando’s class and offers color commentary on his lessons about resource management.

Poe doesn’t stop to ponder the weirdness; he grabs the nearest thing to hand, a chair, and hurls it at Chewbacca’s back. He drops Luke with a roar and Poe tackles him before he can do anything else. Wookies are strong and tenacious, but they’ve got bad balance and their arms and legs are surprisingly fragile. Get one on the ground and you have at least a small chance of surviving.

But only a small chance. Chewbacca doesn’t bother getting back to his feet, just links his fists together and swings at where Poe was a half second ago. He can hear the air whistling past as he ducks, gets to his feet and dances out of range.

The Wookie isn’t interested in him, though; he immediately turns back to where Luke is still wheezing on the floor, his hand at his throat. Poe lunges forward and gets two solid fistfuls of hair near Chewbacca’s shoulder and heaves him back.

It’s effective in keeping him away from Luke, but leaves Poe with the not-insignificant problem of a quarter-ton Wookie on top of him. He can’t get out from under him, so he just wraps his legs around Chewbacca’s waist and tries to grab at his wrists, keeping him from killing him in a flailing blow.

“I’ll fucking eat your bones!” Chewbacca roars, only it really doesn’t sound like him. Poe’s grip loosens and the Wookie drags himself upright, with Poe still hanging on for dear life, swaying slightly but lumbering inexorably toward Luke again.

“No,” rasps Luke, and reaches out.

Poe can feel a blast of heat pass through him like a shockwave and hears the wet crack of bone. Chewbacca goes down hard, roaring, and Poe is able to jump clear and land next to Luke. He spares a glance behind him; the Wookie’s clutching at its thigh, which looks wrong and twisted. He fights a wave of nausea and focuses on getting Luke to sit up. “Why the hell is Chewbacca trying to kill you?” he asks, hooking Luke’s arm around his shoulders and heaving him up onto his feet. He can hear chairs clattering behind them but he can’t stop.

“That’s not Chewbacca,” Luke rasps. “I need to lie down.”

“You really don’t,” Poe says, because he can hear the Wookie — whoever he is — getting up, howling as he tries to put weight on his broken leg. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

“Oh, that’s a better idea,” and Poe wonders just how long Luke was starved of oxygen before Poe distracted his assassin with a chair.

Suddenly there are two people in the doorway, not blocking them but helping them through — Lor San Tekka and Master Snoke, who hasn’t gotten any less creepy in the past couple years, but right now Poe’s not going to make judgements. “There’s an injured Wookie in there, it just tried to murder Luke.”

“Good gracious,” Lor San says, taking Luke’s other arm. Master Snoke, too short to be much use, peers around them at where the Wookie is still trying to get up.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs. “Not to worry, however. I’m sure the rescue operation is already underway.”

Poe wants to kick him to the side. “That’s great, but we have to get as far away from that thing as possible,” he says, and actually does shove Snoke to one side as he makes for the exit.

“Such decisive action,” says Master Snoke, ambling along behind them. “How fortunate we are to have you so close to hand.”

They’re met at the building entrance by two dozen armed troops and, more importantly, by Dr. Kalonia and her gurney. “He was strangled, I don’t know for how long,” Poe says as he carefully lays Luke down.

“Crushed windpipe,” Dr. Kalonia says briskly. “And it looks like some jolly interesting internal bruising; I’d say he was hit with some kind of sledgehammer a few times in the torso.”

“It was a Wookie,” Poe offers.

“That would do it.” She presses a button; a forcefield goes up around the gurney. “You saved his life; well done.”

“I’ll come with you,” he says.

She slaps him away. “Absolutely not. You’re not a doctor; what will you do, weep all over him? Your duty is to stay here.” She must see something in his face, because her expression softens just the tiniest fraction. “Graduation in three weeks, Lance-Corporal Dameron. Best start acting like a soldier now. Besides,” she says, looking him up and down with a critical eye, “You don’t look like you’re about to die of anything life-threatening. You can come to the infirmary when you’re done here.” There’s the sound of blasters from inside the building, and a roar. “Which should be momentarily.” And she takes off with her charge.

Lor San gapes after her. “That woman could frighten the Emperor,” he says. “Remarkable.”

Poe is about to go after them, duty or no duty, when the general, accompanied by Han, Ben, and the _real_ Chewbacca, come running up from the base. “What’s happened?” she demands. “Report, Dameron.”

Of all the bizarre things to be grateful for, Poe is grateful for the order. “Sir, I was passing by and heard sounds coming from inside the building; I went to investigate and found an assassin attempting to strangle Commander Skywalker. I was able to disengage the assassin and injure it sufficiently to get Commander Skywalker away. Master Snoke and Master Tekka assisted us in our escape, and I believe the lieutenant in charge of the task force has neutralized the assassin.” He hopes so, anyway; he’d like to kick it a few times in the head just to be sure.

“Holy shit,” mutters Chewbacca.

“Is he all right?” Han asks. Ben, hovering behind his father, looks pale and stricken.

“The medic said his windpipe is crushed, but that I — that he’ll live. I don’t know any more, sir.”

“Well, what are you standing around for?” says Han. “Go find out more!”

Poe actually beats Dr. Kalonia to the infirmary and spends a really enjoyable thirty seconds waiting around for them to come through. When they do, Dr. Kalonia scowls. “I’m going to get you demoted, and you haven’t even been enlisted yet,” she complains.

“General Organa sent me,” Poe says, “To be kept abreast of Commander Skywalker’s condition.”

“I haven’t got time to figure out if you’re lying, so sit on that over there—“ she points to a nearby chair — “And don’t move or speak until I come out.” And she shoots off with the gurney, a flock of doctors and nurses in tow.

Once Poe sits down, he’s not sure if he can get back up. His entire body revolts, every muscle that’s been used and abused in the past half-hour going off-line. Which leaves him with nothing except his brain, spinning in ever smaller circles inside his skull. It’s either divine grace or hellish cruelty that there are no chronometers in the waiting room, so Poe has no idea how long it is before Dr. Kalonia comes out, looking irritated.

Poe manages to get to his feet. “How is he? Is he going to be all right?”

“What he is going to be is a pain in my arse of astonishing proportions,” Dr. Kalonia reports. “As for _how_ he is — reconstructed windpipe, sutured spleen, and I did him a favor and took out the kidney that was so badly damaged it would have poisoned his body from the inside out. Other than that, and the sedatives I gave him that _should_ have flattened a tauntaun but have instead made him _chatty_ , he’s the picture of health.” She sighs, and glares at him. “He’s also asking for you.”

Which leads to Poe getting deposited somewhat unceremoniously into another chair, this time in a private room with ugly grey walls and Luke, who has apparently gone from chatty to passed out. Poe watches him and tries not to think about how he should be reporting to the general, how he should be resting himself, how he should be _studying_ , he never did get that book.

The medics have stripped Luke down and put him in something white and deeply unflattering; they even removed his glove, and in the harsh overhead lights he can see the battered exoskin, fraying a bit at the knuckles and fingertips, uncanny. Carefully, he reaches out, turns it so the palm faces up. It’s cool to the touch, flat and lifeless. Poe presses his face against it all the same, murmuring gratitude, thanks, whatever prayers he can remember from a childhood spent staring up at the sky in absentminded faith and wholehearted devotion.

Luke’s hand twitches, curls around to slide clumsy fingers into his hair, flex against the nape of his neck. Poe doesn’t lift his head, just turns a bit and opens his eyes to see Luke blinking down at him. “You saved me,” Luke says, his voice deep with fatigue, probably sore from the reconstruction.

“Guess I was lucky,” Poe says, with some difficulty. Luke is rubbing his thumb in an idle pattern at the hinge of his jaw and he’s so torn between exhaustion and relief and hugely inappropriate arousal that he can barely think.

“Could be fate,” Luke murmurs, and now his thumb is sliding down his cheek to rest against Poe's lower lip. “You were beautiful, you know that?”

Enough sedatives to flatten a tauntaun, he remembers, and sits up. Luke’s hand drops to his side and Poe gets out of the chair. “I’m just glad you’re all right, Commander. I should report back to the general—“

“Stay,” Luke says, urgent. “Please.” His eyes are already drifting shut, though, and Poe doesn’t move as Luke’s breathing evens out into sleep.

The next morning he gets a formal reprimand for failure to report, which he accepts meekly in yesterday’s clothes and with a crick in his neck from sleeping in an infirmary chair. The commendation ceremony a week later makes up for it, though, watching Luke try not to expire of equal parts pride and embarrassment as he reaches out to pin a medal of valor to Poe's chest.

“So does this mean you owe me one, Commander?” Poe murmurs, their heads almost touching.

Luke looks thunderously disapproving, but his eyes twinkle. “Call us even.”


	3. Chapter 3

The second time Poe tries to seduce Luke, he’s got a much better plan.

It’s his first leave post-enlistment; the Fleet has been in his sights for so long that it’s a shock to wake up every morning on an actual destroyer, listening to Snap’s unbelievable snoring from the bottom bunk. On the surface, life on board is just like the Institute — daily routine, missions handed out, debriefs held in rooms that echo the lecture halls on Yavin Four — but instead of waiting a half-day to fly an old Beamdancer, he goes out in an X-wing, sleek and dangerous and all his.

He even gets one of the new BB prototypes, which Kala complains is clear evidence that he’s been fraternizing with the Skywalkers, singular or plural. BB-8 is curious to a fault, trying to follow him out of the hangar every time until finally he just requests permission to have it shadow him. “The division in charge of developing these wants as much info on it as they can get,” he points out. “Might as well have it under observation.”

Which leads to a lot of jokes about Poe’s new girlfriend, which Poe doesn’t mind and BB-8 seems to find entertaining. “I do not believe I have any apparatus that would be sexually satisfactory,” it tells him one day. “But I am honored by the assumption.” Poe tries to kick it down the hallway for that, but it dodges and headbutts his knee and they call it a draw.

Poe is more than willing to trade the chill on his skin for the rush of a fighter, the force of acceleration slamming him back into his seat. But he still misses home, writes to Pops and to Uxon’l, who cheerfully fills him in on the base, Institute, and Academy gossip. He writes to Luke, too; he only gets two replies in six months, but both of them top five thousand words and it’s all Poe can do not to have them bound into a book and carry it in his flight suit’s breast pocket the way Snap carries a holo of his husband.

So when his lieutenant tosses him a leave chip and says, “Two weeks, and you better not try smuggling that fucking droid out of here, Dameron, I don’t care what kind of blowjobs it gives you,” Poe is already devising his strategy.

It’s high summer when he lands on Yavin Four, and he spends three days helping Pops around the house, cleaning up the metric shitton of books placed absently on tables or projects abandoned halfway. Pops has also been living off of some kind of new nutrition block that’s all the rage; after six months of choking down rations, Poe's offended to his very core that his father is intentionally eating something that tastes _worse_. His tree has grown; it’s no longer getting taller, but spreading out, weaving through nearby trunks and branches. Plants and young saplings are still growing nearby, even in its shadow, and Poe makes a note to ask Luke if he should cut back the undergrowth.

After enough time bullying Pops into helping him clean up the place and eating actual food for every meal, Poe heads over to the base. He’s gotten it all worked out; the general has actually asked _him_ if he didn’t mind coming in and talking with the first-years. He has the perfect excuse to drop a comm to Luke that morning: IN YOUR NECK OF WOODS FOR NEXT FEW DAYS. STAYING AT HIGH RIDGE INN. DRINKS TONIGHT?

He gets a confirmation. 1900. IF YOU WEAR YOUR MEDAL OF VALOR I AM GOING TO LEAVE IMMEDIATELY.

High Ridge is a little (a lot) out of his price range, but each room has its own pool and moldable beds, not to mention a bar downstairs where you can have a couple innocent drinks before giving into uncontrollable lust. He checks in early and changes into uniform, because his squadron has already nominated him to pose for the Fleet Calendar next year and he figures even with that, he’ll need every advantage to overcome Luke’s enormously stupid but apparently iron-clad vow of chastity.

He’s told to report in to the general before meeting the first-years, which makes him nervous. General Organa has been running the Yavin Base for going on six years now; she’s a much different person than Leia, the tiny lady Poe had known when he was a little kid. He only saw her a handful of times when he was at the Institute, and every time she gave the impression that she was waiting for him to be interesting enough to deal with.

“Dameron,” she says, looking up from her desk. “Get in here.”

The official office of the general is a beautiful, high-ceilinged room with a view of the Massassi temples in the distance, breathtaking artwork from the Core Worlds. The general uses it when she wants to impress people and otherwise works in a cramped, windowless cube just off the main ops center. Shelves line every wall and every shelf is full to bursting with reports, personnel records, information too valuable or too old to be digitized. There aren’t any pictures of Han or Luke or Ben, but there is a small projection on her desk of a slowly turning planet.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Sit,” she says. Poe manages to dislodge a stack of paper from the visitor’s chair; there’s nowhere else to put it, so he settles it on his lap. “So. How’s the Fleet?”

“Sir?”

This makes her grin, for some reason. “I’m not asking about your fellow soldiers, Dameron. I’m asking more generally. What do you think?”

It’s not a significantly less loaded question. “I think it’s what I signed up for, sir.”

“That makes one of us,” sighs the general. “I’ve been getting more reports on the Imperial factions in recent months; the First Order seems to be on its way out, but the Dawn Army is stepping up its game. You’ve been seeing a lot of that action.” She gestures. “Any thoughts?”

Lots of thoughts, but none he wants to share with a general. “The accord at Hosnian Four was just signed, sir,” he says. “Maybe that will—“

“Calm things down?” says the general. She looks amused at the idea. “Maybe.”

Poe honestly isn’t sure what he’s here for. “Sir, if you don’t think the accord will work, why did you support it? Everyone was — surprised, I guess, when you came out in favor.”

“Out of fear, I suppose,” she says, candid. “The Confederacy, the Dawn Army, even the First Order — they’re all ready for war. They’ve been building toward one for the past fifteen years; they can’t survive much longer in peace. But the New Republic has been so focused on rebuilding what we had before the Empire — we’re not ready for the kind of war they’re going to wage.”

“Then I guess you’d better get us ready,” Poe says, then flinches as he hears what just came out of his mouth. “Sir.”

Instead of busting him back down to Ensign, she laughs. “I guess I’d better,” she says. “At any rate, I actually asked you here because I missed your graduation ceremony, and I wanted to offer you my congratulations.”

“Sir,” Poe says, “With all due respect, it’s going to be a real pain in the ass for everybody in my class to get dragged all the way back here just to get congratulated.”

“Perks of being in charge, Corporal. Besides, for most of them I just sent a message. But your mother was a good friend to me. Saved my life a few times; she was one hell of a pilot.” She looks him over. “She’d be proud of you.”

Poe doesn’t really welcome the sudden prick behind his eyes, and he blinks it away. “Thank you, sir.”

“She’d also say that you’d better impress these kids today, and stop wasting the general’s time.”

“Yes, sir.” Poe gets up and salutes. “I hope I live up to my mother’s reputation one day, sir.”

“You’d better,” says the general. “Now get out of here.”

The first-years are all gratifyingly amazed by him, although three different students ask him about his hair and all the other questions are about BB-8 once he admits to having one of the prototypes. Captain Nunb, sitting in the back of the class, beams at him like a proud parent; at the end of the class he claps his hands and says, “And now! Corporal Dameron will give us demonstration! He will show off his skills! Which he did all the time when he was here! You should never show off! But one day if you practice you will have the chance! The chance to be a show off like our Corporal Dameron here!”

They all troop out to the hangar, the first-years careful not to step a toe into the actual cave, and Poe flies out in a little A-wing that he finds collecting dust in the back. He does a few maneuvers, a couple of stop-drops — and then it really does stop, and drop.

Somehow he walks away with bruised ribs, which Dr. Kalonia refuses to heal out of sheer irritation that he’s come back to the base only to bother her again. “Besides, I can’t heal them,” she says. “Not truly; that kind of injury requires rest, that’s all. The best you can do is take some painkillers and wait it out.”

“Then can I have some painkillers?” Poe asks, trying not to sound petulant.

“ _No_ ,” she snaps, and kicks him out.

By the time he gets back to the hotel, he’s got less than fifteen minutes to change into something that’s less flattering than his uniform but has the benefit of not being torn and dirty. It turns out taking your clothes off with bruised ribs is really hard to do, but Poe grits his teeth through it, takes a quick shower (which is _also_ painful, unbelievably enough), and manages to very, very slowly put on some clothes that won’t make his ass look nearly as good. He scrubs at his wet hair but he’s late as it is, so he heads downstairs to the bar.

Luke is already there, drinking something violently pink and looking around with benign interest at the other patrons. He’s not in all-black or his ugly Jedi Professor getup, but in normal clothes, a flight jacket Poe vaguely recognizes and dark green trousers. He looks good — he looks like he’s _trying_ to look good, and it makes something go hot in Poe’s belly.

He makes his way over and sits, very carefully, down on the stool next to him. “No medal,” he says, and Luke looks up, startled. “Does that buy me a drink?”

Luke is already grinning and about to respond, when he frowns, puts up his left hand as though touching something just in front of him. “You’re hurt,” he says, and then, outraged, “Bruised _ribs_?”

“Okay, that’s a creepy magic trick,” Poe mutters, grabbing Luke’s wrist and forcing it down. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, you should be in bed,” Luke shoots back, then winces. “ _Resting_. You should be resting.”

Poe doesn’t give the tiniest of shits about his ribs, because Luke’s _ears_ are turning red. “Well, that’s one thing a bed is good for,” he says, and makes the mistake of trying to lean rakishly on the bar. “Ow,” he gasps.

“Unbelievable,” Luke huffs.

So instead of seducing Luke and/or dragging him upstairs by his jacket, Poe gets half-carried to his room and lowered gently on the bed, Luke tucking him in with a lot more care than Dr. Kalonia demonstrated. He glances around as the bed shifts to make Poe more comfortable, looking impressed and curious and completely wise to Poe’s game. “Nice place,” he says. “I can order us up some ice.”

The “us” is hopeful. “Order us up some drinks while you’re at it,” he says. “Might as well have our little reunion here.”

“Whenever you smile at me like that, I get nervous,” Luke says. He doesn’t look particularly nervous. “I’ll be back with some ice.”

“And drinks!” Poe calls after him.

Which bites him on the ass when Luke comes back with drinks. Technically. “Fruit juice?” Poe demands, betrayed.

Luke is absolutely unrepentant. “Mixing alcohol with painkillers is rarely a good idea, Poe,” he says primly. He presses an icepack to Poe’s side, and the expression on his face indicates clearly that this is as erotic as anything’s getting tonight.

Poe hisses at the cold, but after a few seconds it starts to feel a little better. He sips at his drink. It’s delicious, which infuriates him even more. “I’m not _on_ any painkillers.”

That seems to surprise Luke for a moment, until his face dawns in understanding, then amusement. “Dr. Kalonia must really hate you,” he says, and drags an armchair up next to the bed.

Poe tries not to snarl, but the deja vu is very unwelcome. “Are we having another talk about how we’re two different people at different times of our lives?” he asks. “Because I gotta tell you, I still think your argument could use some work.”

“You are, strangely, not the first person to tell me that,” Luke sighs, and sits down. Before Poe can ask who he’s been talking to about what, he continues, “But you’ll be happy to know I was _actually_ going to ask if you wanted help with the ribs. Beyond the ice pack, that is.”

Poe gives him his best irresistable grin. “Are you offering to help me forget my pain, Commander?”

“I’m offering a healing trance,” Luke says, repressive. “You’ll sleep for about a day; after that, you should be fine.”

“I didn’t know you could do that,” says Poe, the smile sliding off. “Holy — that’s amazing.”

Luke shrugs. “It’s not something to advertise. And it only works if I put you under, so it’s not as though I’m useful in the middle of a fight.”

Poe remembers the sound of the assassin’s leg breaking, Luke half-dead and spilling heat like a nova. “You’ve got your uses,” he demurs. “I — maybe later. I’d rather talk with you, catch up.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “You’re in pain,” he says slowly.

“If it’s a choice between bruised ribs and not seeing you,” Poe replies, “I’ll take the bruised ribs every time.”

Luke slouches back in the chair, glowering at Poe. “You say things like that, and it really doesn’t help.”

“I’m not trying to help,” Poe says, “Not to point out the obvious, here.”

“I told you before—“

“That was years ago,” Poe argues. “I’m nineteen now—“

Luke gives him a look. “You’re eighteen.”

“I am _almost nineteen_ ,” he continues, “I’m in the Fleet — it’s not like we’re student and teacher anymore. Which, by the way, we _never were_ , because you refused to have me in your classes.”

“Because I would’ve had to fail you because you would have spent the whole class staring at me instead of paying attention.”

“You’re right,” Poe says, tilting his chin up. “I would’ve.”

Luke looks away.

“Just — look. If you’re not interested, I get it.” It costs most of his soul to force that out, but once he does it’s easier to go on. “I’ll quit bugging you about it. I just think the reasons you came up with back when I was a kid don’t really sound that convincing anymore.”

“You’re not bugging me,” Luke says.

“That’s not an answer.”

“You always were a little too smart.” He swirls the glass in his hand, absently uses the Force to stir the preposterous straw sticking out of it. At last he sighs. “What do you remember about your comparative religion studies?”

It’s so out of nowhere that Poe’s convinced he heard wrong. “What?”

“Your comparative religion studies,” Luke repeats. “As I recall you took both levels; you liked your professor.”

His professor had been Lor San Tekka, and every time Poe had brought it up Luke had groaned and said that he got enough of Lor San’s lectures in the staff room, he didn’t need it from Poe. “I remember a lot of things about it.”

“Tell me about the savior cult phenomenon.”

Like Luke says, Poe’s always been a little too smart. “I’m not in love with Luke Skywalker, Hero of the Galaxy, The Last Jedi And Only Hope For The Future.”

“I never thought you were,” Luke says softly. “But for better or worse, I _am_ the Hero of the Galaxy, The Last Jedi and all the rest of it. That kind of infamy — that kind of power — it’s always an exploitation, Poe. Every time.”

“You make it sound like no one else has a choice,” Poe snaps. “If somebody wants you, and you want them—“

“That’s the trick, isn’t it,” Luke says. “And what happens if the relationship ends? If one of us gets angry, or one of us is unfaithful?” Poe snorts at that, but Luke plows ahead. “There are a billion people on a thousand planets who bow down to images of me every week, no matter what I do to convince them to get off their knees. And there are billions more who’ve said that they’ll follow Luke Skywalker into hell if he asks them. And there are at least a few billion out there,” he adds, “Who want me dead, some of them so badly they’ll flatten cities to do it.”

“Boy, you sure think a lot of yourself,” Poe says weakly, because he can’t ask Luke to stop saying this stuff; not after demanding a better reason. He just wishes Luke didn’t have a better reason that was _this_ much better.

Luke gives that all the attention it deserves. “There was a time when I thought I could mitigate the risks, when I thought that if the other person was _really sure_ , then somehow everything would work out. Two of them were killed by someone trying to get to me. One turned out to be an assassin herself. And the other two — the only two, Poe, who are alive and well — are powerful in their own right, and to this day there’s still a price on their heads, still people trying to kill them because they went to bed with Luke Skywalker.” He clenches his right hand into a fist, stares down at it. “My loved ones have targets on their back the size of a destroyer. I’m not going to sacrifice anyone else for my own selfishness.”

Poe’s ribs hurt. A lot. He lies back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling for a while; he can hear Luke taking a sip of his goddamned fruit juice.

The funny thing is, Poe remembers thinking about Luke’s weird cult back when he’d taken that first comparative religions class; he’d signed up for the second because Lor San had said he could do an independent study on the Order of the New Faith. Poe sat in the back of the nearby congregation for weeks, listening to its scripture and thinking that the god these people had was one of the better ones: instead of a man who aspired to godhood, they painted him as a god who strove for humanity. But it was still completely wrong, nothing like the man that Poe knew, and he wondered at the dangerous mythology that was growing up around Luke where he stood, tangling at his feet. He listened to testimonies of faith and the proclamations of miracles and felt a peculiar dread of these friendly, hardworking churchgoers who had no idea their savior was so close; who would tear him to pieces if they could make him a relic.

After a minute, Poe clears his throat. “So what does it take?” he asks.

Luke, who has clearly settled back to have a nice sulk in his armchair over there, starts. “Pardon?”

“You said that the only two who survived are powerful on their own. Are they, like, empresses?”

Luke cocked his head. “I would love to get you in a room with Mara and see what she does to you after you call her that,” he says. “No. One is a general in the Fleet, and the other is…” Luke smiles, clearly enormously fond of whoever it is he’s thinking about. “The other is a… pirate, I suppose you could call her. But one with considerable personal resources. And come to think of it, I think she styles herself ‘General’ these days, too.”

“All right, then,” Poe says.

“‘All right,’ what?” Luke demands.

Poe shrugs, then regrets it immediately; it turns out your shoulders are connected directly to the most tender part of your ribs. “All right, now I’ve got a goalpost. I hope you don’t mind if I skip being a pirate,” he adds earnestly. “But I figure, give me a decade or two, I could probably give you a General. General Dameron — what do you think?”

He wants a holo of the face Luke is making right now. “I — _no_ ,” he says, resolute. “That’s not the lesson to take from this, Poe.”

“Too bad,” Poe says, feeling more cheerful than he has since he woke up upside-down in his smoking A-wing. “Look,” he says, because Luke still looks aghast, “You still have friends, don’t you? You still have family; they’re in danger, sure, but it’s not like you’ve just walled your sister out of your life.”

“Leia is a General, too, and could probably kick my ass if she ever bothered to learn the ways of the Force.”

Privately, Poe doesn’t think the general would need the Force. “So according to your rules, you could date a General.”

Luke rolls his eyes. “Yes, fine. I could date a General. But I don’t think—“

“You made the rules, Commander,” Poe says, pointing a finger at him. “I’m just following them to their logical conclusion. If the only way I score a date is by being a General, then you’re getting a General.”

“I’m not dangling myself like a _blandan_ on a stick for you,” Luke says, sounding halfway between amused and annoyed. The word isn’t familiar, but the sentiment is. “I’m not a prize.”

“Beg to differ, Commander.” Poe settles back and shuts his eyes. “All right, if you’re not too hopped up on fruit juice, I’ll take that healing trance now. And hey, if you can do anything about this scar on my hairline, that’d be great.”

Instead of making a snide remark or just putting him under so he’ll shut up, Luke rests his left hand on the top of Poe’s head, his thumb running along the scar where he’d fallen off the roof of the house fifteen years ago, convinced the Force would catch him before he hit the ground. “I can only fix what’s wrong with you,” he says softly, and Poe wants to say _screw it_ to his new plan and just grab Luke by the lapels of his stupid jacket. But before he can do much more than mutter “Are you fucking kidding me,” he’s being pushed under a fast-moving river, warm and safe and utterly dark.

He wakes up a day and a half later; the chill in the air is mitigated somewhat by Luke’s jacket, draped carefully across his chest.

  


*

  


The second time Luke rescues Poe, he’s almost too late.

They’ve been flying missions against the Dawn Army for months, and everyone’s gotten a little frayed around the edges. The Dawn Army also has a squadron of TIE fighters, old models that are still able to outpace even the fastest X-wing, and Poe is up at all hours, drafting new maneuvers for the squad to take advantage of the X-wing’s superior handling, hoping to glean that slightest advantage. They need it; what the Dawn Army lacks in new technology it more than makes up for in a cloning program that’s produced an army capable of overwhelming by sheer numbers and the _Avenger_ is losing more soldiers every day.

But as awful as these skirmishes are, at least they’re _doing_ something. The Republican Fleet has been sitting on its ass for years now, watching the Imperial factions get more and more aggressive. It’s not their fault — the Senate has been so busy signing treaties and accords with people like the New Empire and the First Order that they haven’t had time, apparently, to read any military reports — but Poe and his squad still chafe under the directives of observe and report. Having an actual target, an actual purpose, is something to be grateful for.

He’s just putting the finishing touches on a new attack formation one day when he can feel heat bloom at the base of his spine, spreading over his shoulders and suffusing him. He puts his head down on the table and lets out a long, relieved groan. He hasn’t even been cold, really — hasn’t had time — but he’s flooded with sunshine after months in a cage, and he can’t help but revel in it.

Snap and Ziff, sitting across from him at work on their own strategy, pause mid-word. “Everything okay, buddy?” Snap ventures.

Kala, taking a break on the sofa with a cup of tea, makes a disgusted noise. “Oh, sailors and sunbeams _away_ ,” she swears. “ _Fucking_ _Skywalker_.”

They’re summoned to a briefing room an hour or so later, and sure enough, Luke is conferring with the Admiral. Everybody grabs a seat; Kala collapses into the chair next to him, then bumps him with her shoulder. “Not going to go say hi?”

“I’m a completely professional and totally serious soldier person,” Poe replies. She laughs, then covers it up with a cough when one of Yzym’s eyestalks swivels toward her.

“Demonstrably false,” says BB-8. “I can provide counter-examples.” Poe nudges it with his foot.

“A different strategy for today, my friends,” the admiral says, trilling her second vocal register to get everyone’s attention. “We’ll be needing two of you as a guard detail for Commander Skywalker. Any volunteers?”

Kala folds both pairs of arms over her chest. “You have fun out there,” she mutters.

In the end it’s Poe and Ello Asty; Ello leans over. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he whispers.

Luke, still standing patiently at the front of the room, says, “Probably a wise reaction. Admiral, may I?” At Yzym’s nod, he pulls up a projection; the Dawn Army base that they’ve been trying to get to for the past three months. “Our mission is to take out this generator on the underside of this asteroid,” he says, gesturing to the belt that wraps around the moon. “That should help us disable the shields surrounding the base and allow for a run. The admiral says you’ve been working on a way to get through the asteroid belt.”

“That’s not the problem, sir,” Poe says, appalling himself at the instinctive honorific. Luke looks equally dismayed, but Poe forges ahead. “I mean, not the only one. The Dawn Army still has over two dozen TIE fighters patrolling the base; even if we can get within range without tripping their sensors, they don’t need a lot of leadtime to come kick our asses. Plus, the generator’s half a mile under the surface of the asteroid with only one tunnel leading in or out. The homing missiles aren’t precise enough; it always detonates in the tunnel before it gets close.” They’ve lost two teams already trying to make the run, he doesn’t say, but everyone in the room is thinking it.

“Which is why I’m here,” Luke replies, cheerful. “You two are going to cover me while I deposit the payload.”

“Commander Skywalker can use the Force to ensure it hits the target,” Yzym says, looking pleased; her membranes are glowing blue, at any rate.

“Which leaves us with the problem of how to get there,” Luke says. “The admiral says there might be a plan ready?”

There is, but Poe’s pretty sure Luke’s not going to like it. “Yes, sir,” he says. “We’ve been developing a strategy based on some of General Solo’s tactics back during the Rebellion. We think it will work here.”

“Who’s this ‘we’?” Kala hisses.

Luke frowns. “Which strategy?”

It’s not the worst plan Poe has ever had, but it’s close. Ello and Luke both make their objections clear, with BB-8 chiming in about how much the Fleet will sue his family for the loss of such a valuable droid. Unfortunately for them, Yzym okays the mission and since Luke never bothered to formalize any of the promotions the Republican Fleet threw at him like candy, he’s technically outranked. Nevertheless, Poe gets _three_ devils on his shoulder as he leads them down to the shuttle bay, greets R2-D2 and introduces him to BB-8, wriggles into his flight suit and grabs his helmet off the hook.

“Gentlemen,” he says at last, smiling broadly. “Let’s go do this.”

Ello makes a growling sound and stalks off to his X-wing. Luke, still mutinous, stays put. “Nice jacket,” Poe remarks. “New?”

Luke is too pissed to be embarrassed. “I gave my old one to some idiot with a death wish,” he says. “I should probably get it back before he dies horribly in less than an hour.”

“Hey, now, don’t be hurtful. What are you so worried about?” It’s an incredibly risky plan, but he and Ello are the two best pilots on the _Avenger_ , and even if Luke wasn’t Luke Skywalker, Ace Star Pilot, he’s still got the Force to keep him out of trouble.

Luke actually gapes at him. “You know I was _with_ Han when he developed this maneuver, right?”

Poe didn’t, actually. “X-wings are a lot more agile than the Millennium Falcon,” he says. “It’ll be fine.”

“I disagree,” Luke says.

Poe sighs. “Do you trust my piloting?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Do you trust _me_?”

That brings Luke up short. “I — yes.”

Poe grins. He’s never been this happy. “Then suit up, flyboy.”

Five minutes later they’re out of the bay and winging toward the asteroid field, a tight vee covering Luke’s X-wing. They slow to a crawl and cut power just outside asteroid belt, beyond the Dawn Army’s sensors, and begin to drift ever closer to the nearest rock.

“Ready?” Poe calls over the comms. He looks up through the viewscreen; Ello is directly above him and upside-down, looking glum.

“You’re an idiot,” Ello replies.

“Since I’m flying point, technically I’m in charge, so that really should be ‘you’re an idiot, _sir_ ’”

“Sorry,” Ello says. “You’re an idiot, sir.”

“Excellent,” Poe chirps, and lands carefully on the first asteroid. There’s no gravitational pull to him them there; he uses the fighter’s magnetic clamps. BB-8 chimes in with the necessary calculations, timing down to the nanosecond, and Poe disengages to drift toward the next asteroid. Luke follows just behind him, careful to keep his distance, and finally Ello drifts into the belt, swearing copiously over the comms.

It takes almost five hours to get close enough to the generator. Ello and Luke don’t talk much — at least, not to him, and he’s grateful because what they’re doing is probably impossible and if he breaks his concentration he might realize it. Asteroids spin around them with the silence of certain death, the occasional fist-sized rock rattling idly off the hulls. After a while he gets into a zone, using the fighter’s landing gear to bounce off an asteroid and land on another one. If it weren’t for the fact that one mistake would get him him killed, it’d be kind of fun.

Incredibly, miraculously, they make it through with Luke having to use the Force just once to shove a house-sized boulder out of their way. Poe affixes himself to an asteroid with a clear line of sight to the generator. There’s nothing else around; the Dawn Army relies on the field and its electric sensors to keep people out, and so the TIE fighters are all tucked up in their base down on the moon. “Go on my mark,” Luke murmurs through the intercom, even though there’s no need to be quiet. But Poe and Ello both confirm quietly, andPoe’s holding his breath as he waits.

Then Luke says, “Now,” and their engines roar to life.

The bombing run goes exactly according to plan; as Luke’s X-wing skims over the surface of the asteroid they can already see the concussive shockwave, the explosion bursting before snuffing out in the void of space. There’s no sound, but the data relays interpret the data as a satisfying _boom_ that shakes the console speakers; just audible under it is Ello’s bray of triumph.

It’s short-lived; a dozen TIE fighters are already swarming up from the moon’s surface, closing in too fast for them to make a clean run back to the carrier even if there weren’t a thousand asteroids in the way. “We’re about to have a lot of company!” he warns, and spins the X-wing down and left, diving behind the cover of an asteroid as the first shot whines overhead. He uses the grapple to spin himself back up and over, facing back toward the fighter, and shoots twice. The TIE fighter’s port wing shreds off and it goes hurtling into the asteroid Poe just used.

BB-8 is running the algorithms for a full spread and Poe goes ahead and gives it leave to fire at will; BB-8 is a better shot, as it never tires of reminding him, and he’s got his hands full keeping track of Ello and Luke, just ahead of him, a fraction of a second safer than his sorry ass. That doesn’t last, though; a TIE fighter comes screeching over to make a beeline for Luke’s ship, and Poe has a sick certainty that they know exactly who’s flying that thing. “Commander, you’ve got someone really interested in making your acquaintance directly above at six, closing fast.”

Luke doesn’t say anything, but his X-wing drops like a stone on a gas giant, flipping around so its static guns are pointed directly at the fighter that was about to knock him out of the sky. He fires and Poe flies through the explosion, feeling the thump of wreckage and bodies against the wings. There’s no time for congratulations; seven more fighters are closing in, within range in under a minute.

“Asty, get the Commander out of here,” he instructs. “I’ve got your six.”

“Roger,” says Ello.

“No,” Luke says. “We’re not splitting up.”

“Commander, there’re too many of them,” Poe says, hoping the _like I told you there would be_ comes across. “You and Asty have a chance if someone covers your retreat—“ he pauses to dodge beneath an asteroid in his path, and before he can continue he can hear Luke saying something.

“—all going back,” he catches. “Nobody’s getting left behind.”

“Commander,” Poe says, and he can’t believe he has to argue rudimentary strategy in the middle of a goddamn battle, “You have to get out of here — you’re not an acceptable loss.”

“Neither are you,” Luke says grimly.

“Fellas,” Ello says, “This is nice, but those seven fighters are just about up our asshole, so if we’ve got a better plan than ‘we all go together,’ let’s hear it.”

Poe takes a deep breath. “All right, follow my lead.”

He’s put together more than his fair share of formations and he knows it’s always different in the execution, but this one doesn’t even have the comfort of trajectory or calculations or more than fifteen seconds of planning. But he settles into his seat and sends out the command, and Ello and Luke are locking onto each other, static guns pointed in opposite directions, like they’re smugglers covering each other’s backs in some old holovid. Luke comes around and blasts _onetwothree_ , another fighter sent screaming into an asteroid. There’s no room to maneuver, but that hurts the TIE fighters more than them; they’re coming in too fast, overshooting and overcompensating. Before long there’s only three left, one with an electric crackle along one wing.

Luke and Ello break apart on Poe’s order, coming in from either side as Poe draws fire down and away. “Another one down,” Ello reports, “We might actually—“

And of course that’s when Poe’s X-wing is hit, slamming him against the restraints and back into his chair. “I’m hit!” he calls. BB-8 is reporting the damage; the starboard upwing is twisted so badly that the thruster is pointed directly at the hull, so any attempt he makes at course correction is going to fry him to a crisp. “Guys, I’ve got to cut—“ but there’s another whine and another hit.

He doesn’t explode, which frankly he might’ve preferred; instead his ship goes spinning right for a nice, big asteroid that Poe recognizes vaguely from their trip inside. He can hear Luke shouting at him to eject, but it’s jammed, the red light blinking apologetically. The asteroid gets closer in a hurry.

“Sorry, Luke,” he mutters, and fumbles for his blast shield — which of course doesn’t come down and which won’t help anyway, since he’ll be scattered into about a million pieces. As he’s hurtling down onto what looks like a really, really hard surface, his brain skitters: _I hope BB-8’ll be okay_ and _they’d better cremate me before Pops has to see the body_ and _I’m not ready, it’s not fair, I’m not finished_. The ground rushes up and he closes his eyes as the heat consumes him.

When he opens his eyes again, he _can’t_ ; there’s something covering his eyes. “Luke?” he asks, because he can feel him, somewhere on his right. “What’s happened? Where am I? Is Ello okay?” He reaches up to feel a bandage on the upper part of his face.

“You’re back on _The Avenger_ ,” Luke’s voice says, “And stop touching that. Your eyes are fine, but they need to heal a bit longer. Corporal Asty is fine, and you’re both on the list to get a commendation, which I don’t think is something your ego really needs, but unfortunately I was overruled.” Something is pressed against his lower lip. “Drink. _Slowly._ ”

He takes small sips, Luke’s hand warm and approving on the back of his neck. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Luke says, although he doesn’t sound like he means it. “Get some rest. Next time you’re awake, the doctors want to poke at you.”

“Something to look forward to,” Poe agrees, and falls asleep again to the sound of Luke’s huff of laughter.

Sure enough, he wakes up again as a half-dozen feet of various species come clomping into his room. “Now, what we have here is a pilot with shredded corneas and carbonized eyelids, a result of not getting his blast shield down. Due to the sensitive nature of these injuries, we’ve allowed them to heal at a slower rate than his other injuries—“

“What other injuries?” Luke didn’t tell him about any other injuries.

“Stop talking,” the doctor orders. “We’ve had him under observation for two weeks—“

“I’ve been here _two weeks?_ ” Poe demands. He turns to where he knows Luke is lurking in the corner, trying not to scare the residents. “You didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

“Stop _talking_ ,” the doctor orders, doing something to the bandages. They fall away and Poe blinks open his eyes into bright white light, like he’s in the afterlife of one of the crummier religions. He squeezes them shut again; there’s the hum of a scanner in his face. “Excellent,” the doctor announces, “So you can see, children, what can be accomplished when we rely on scientific and medical resources, instead of trusting in mystic nonsense.” After a pregnant pause that tells Poe the doctor is glowering at Luke (who’s never been particularly good at being glowered at), there’s some lecturing he gets to listen to about regrowing eyelids, which obviously he’s happy to hear about in nauseating detail. The doctor ignores all his questions and tells him he’ll be discharged as soon as he can see without complaining about everything, and his little herd follows him meekly back out.

He risks squinting one eye half-open; the lights have dimmed down to something bearable. Luke is leaning over his bed, frowning down at him. Poe grins. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Luke looks revolted. “I should have let you crash,” he decides.

“Let me?” Poe echoes, and things start to make sense. “Did you — do something?” And he waves his hand to illustrate.

“Yes,” Luke says, plucking at Poe’s rumpled covers, smoothing the blanket down his leg.

“What, exactly?”

Luke doesn’t seem to be listening; he’s staring absently at the foot of Poe’s bed. “Not enough.”

Poe is about to make fun of him for being the only person he knows to feel guilty about saving someone’s life when he hears the unmistakable sound of his squad coming down the hall, the shrill irritation and steady whirr of an astromech droid. His room is suddenly full to bursting, everyone brandishing ugly flowers and foul candy and some balloons shaped like an assortment of genitalia from a dozen different species. “Guys, you shouldn’t have,” he says sincerely.

Ello peers down at him. “You look fine to me,” he sniffs. “Still ugly. Shame they couldn’t fix your face.” He jerks and looks down, where BB-8 is poking him with its comms link. “ _Hey_!”

“BB-8 is right,” Jess says stoutly, leaning over and giving him a businesslike kiss on the forehead. “You look beautiful as always. Although — were your eyes always green?”

“What? No,” Poe says, alarmed. He likes his brown eyes; they’re the same shade as Mama’s were.

“Side effect of the surgery,” Luke pipes up from where he’s been hiding in the corner again. “They’ll go back to their original color in a few days.”

There’s a lot of shuffling and coughing silence as Jess says, “Oh. That’s good.” Poe sees Ziff trying to surreptitiously hide some of the more graphic balloons under his shirt.

“I should go—“ Luke starts, and whatever else he’s going to say gets drowned out by everybody else in the room making really pathetic excuses about why they had to leave but _Commander Skywalker! Commander, you should stay, please, we’ve got to go do… stuff. But you stay here. We’ll go._ Poe doesn’t know who to be more embarrassed for. They’re gone less than sixty seconds after they arrived, whispering and casting backward glances at Poe as they stumble out the door. Jess, ever the enabler, gives a big wink and finger guns, and Kala makes a gesture that’s incredibly rude on her planet but doesn’t really have an equivalent amongst species with only two arms and no blowhole.

BB-8 stays right where it is, shifting its look from Luke to Poe and back. “Pretend I’m not here,” it says, and goes over to the socket to recharge.

“I’m glad you were able to rescue him,” Poe says, nodding at where BB-8 is powering down. “He’s one of a kind.”

“It’s the least I could do, really,” Luke says, “Considering I’m the reason you’re in this mess.”

“Hey, in all fairness, the plan almost worked,” Poe says, feeling generous now that his droid and his squad mate and his eyelids are all back in one piece. “And you didn’t even have to come out here and help us in the first place.”

“Actually, I did,” Luke says.

Poe frowns. He’s got the feeling he’s about to be really upset. “What do you mean?”

“I’m the reason you’re _all_ in this mess,” Luke says. “Leia gave the command to attack this base because of me.”

Sure enough. “Okay. Can I ask why? Or is that classified or above my pay grade or something?”

Luke bites his lip; he’s having some kind of inner debate with himself, Poe can tell, but it doesn’t take him too long to sigh and come out from his corner, leaning back against the foot of Poe’s bed with his arms crossed. His back is a perfect arc, and Poe wonders if he’s on any drugs that make him want to reach out and trace it, hold it in his memory. Probably not, he thinks sadly.

“The Dawn Army took the biggest share of the historical records that the Emperor collated over the years,” he says, and one of these days Poe’s going to have to ask Luke why he always says _the Emperor,_ never _the Empire_. “Their cloning tech is the main reason we don’t like them much, but they’ve also got an advantage when it comes to the history of the various planets under the Emperor’s thumb. One of the things they had — although I doubt they ever realized it — was information about the Jedi Order.”

“Had?” Poe asks.

“Thanks to us, the Admiral was able to scramble a squadron and launch an all-out attack on the base last week,” Luke says. “We recovered the databases. And quite a lot else,” he adds, though he clearly doesn’t care much about whatever it was that the Fleet managed to get.

“So what was in the database — old scripture?” Poe asks. “We’ve been throwing ourselves at these guys so you could sneak out a couple holy texts?”

Luke scowls down at the floor. “A little more important than that,” he says.

“It better’ve been pretty _damn_ important, is all I’m saying,” Poe grumbles. “I had to _regrow my eyelids_.”

“It was,” Luke says. “You remember my tree?”

Poe frowns. “Hey, you gave that tree to my mother fair and square, and she gave it to me. No takebacks.”

Luke rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “I mean the _other_ one. There are two, remember?”

Poe tries to — a spring afternoon in the backyard, legs swinging, the name of the fertilizer he’d wanted Luke to buy in order for his tree to grow as big as Poe’s. “You haven’t planted it yet?” he asks.

“I told you,” Luke says, as if the conversation happened ten minutes and not more than a dozen years ago, “I’m looking for somewhere special.”

“I swear on every ship in this fleet, Luke,” Poe says seriously, “If you’ve put everybody through hell just to find a nice spot to plant a tree—“

“I’m looking for the First Jedi Temple,” he says. “The tree — our trees — they came from the one that grew at the Temple on Coruscant. And _that_ one came from the one at the First Temple. Both of those are gone now; the tree on Coruscant was destroyed when the Emperor came to power, and the legends say the one at the First Temple was cut down over a thousand years ago.”

“So you’re looking for our trees’… grandmother’s home,” Poe tries.

Luke is clearly about to say something snippy, but after a minute he sighs. “Yes.”

“And this is important,” says Poe.

“Extremely.”

Poe thinks about it. He could probably get Luke to explain _why_ it was important, but if it’s got anything to do with the Jedi or the Force, there’s a vanishingly small chance he’ll understand any of it. But it’s not his job to understand, not really; he knows that Luke moves in mysterious ways, and when he’s called upon to leap, he’ll close his eyes and fling himself forward, every time. “All right,” he says.

Luke gives him the side-eye. “All right?”

“Sure.” Poe shrugs, trying hard to keep a straight face. “I mean, it all worked out for me, right? I’m getting a commendation out of it, I learned some pretty neat new moves—“

“Which you’re never going to employ again,” Luke says firmly. “That was the most insane stunt I’ve ever had the misfortune to be a part of, and if you hadn’t nearly gotten yourself killed, I’d tell the Admiral to demote you.”

Poe can’t help the grin that spills out of him, because Luke’s anger is incandescent, beautiful. “That’s pretty hilarious coming from _you_ , Commander,” he says. “Besides, my squad seems to think I did all right. Look at all these poisonous plants and disgusting candy.”

Luke lets his eyes drift up to the ceiling where several balloons are bumping against each other in configurations that would not, in fact, be possible on the life-forms they’re meant to emulate. “You scared them,” he says.

“‘Them’?” asks Poe. He looks around the empty room, theatrically.

Luke pulls a petulant face. “Fine. Me. You scared me.”

“And what is it that’s got you so scared, Commander?” Poe makes himself comfortable in the bed, wriggling slightly. “A commendation — means I’ll be getting my lieutenant stripes that much faster. Second lieutenant, first lieutenant, captain, major, colonel, commander, admiral, brigadier general — hey, does that count as a general?”

Luke is probably going to Force-strangle him any second. “ _No._ ”

“Too bad. Okay, brigadier general, major general, then—“ he spreads his hands with a flourish, “General. Everything’s coming up Dameron, here.”

“If you’re telling me that _suicidal_ plan was just so you could get a promotion, Poe,” Luke says warningly.

“If it was?” Poe asks. It wasn’t, but he’s not going to complain about the outcome. “I told you the game plan last year, Luke, and _you_ made the rules.”

Luke twists around to lean over him, one arm braced against the back of the bed. He probably wants to look intimidating but Poe just drinks him in, sinks into the summer’s day of him. “And I’m telling you, your life is too important to risk it all just to—“

“Yeah, I heard,” Poe says, “I’m not an acceptable loss.” He reaches up and cups Luke’s jaw in his hand, runs his thumb along the stubble. “You should shave,” he tells Luke, solemn. “I don’t think you’d look very good with a beard.”

Just for a second, Poe’s sure that Luke is going to give in; his eyes flicker down to his mouth and his breathing goes unsteady. But he lurches out of range and tucks his hands in his pockets, gives Poe a stiff smile. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, and walks out.

BB-8 gives a long, low whistle as it powers back up. It glides over to the doorway, tilts out to watch Luke go. “You’ve got weird taste in girlfriends,” it remarks.

“Shut up,” Poe says, and puts a pillow over his face, grinning into it until his cheeks hurt.

  


*

  


The next time Poe sees Luke, two months later, he almost doesn’t recognize him. Luke’s grown a full beard, not long but… comprehensive.

It’s deeply, horrifically unattractive.

“You look like an elderly skunk died on your face,” Poe says flatly. Everything is terrible. He should have been killed on that asteroid.

“Really?” Luke says absently, tugging on it. “I think it makes me look distinguished.”

“So what am I doing here?” Poe ought to sound friendlier, but a) beard b) he’s been dragged back to Yavin Four for some much-protested mandatory leave, only to c) get a summons from the general the second he landed to report immediately to Base which resulted in d) someone telling him he was actually supposed to go see Professor Skywalker at the Academy. He tracked Luke down to his quarters, which ordinarily he’d think was really great, but he’s operating on about two hours of sleep and he’s still disoriented from the unsteady tug of planet gravity, so different from the _Avenger’s_ smooth pull. And again. Beard.

Luke, looking unimpressed with his tone, returns to whatever he’s scribbling at his desk and leaves Poe to stand in the doorway. “I assume you’re here at least in part to visit your father. He misses you.”

Poe glares at him. “Seriously, what am I doing here? We don’t have to fly through another asteroid field and fetch, like, a rosebush from the Twenty-Third Jedi Temple or something, do we? Because I’m pretty sure I’m on mandatory R&R right now.”

“How did you know where I was?” Luke asks.

“What?” At this moment Poe is baffled by the idea that there’s any single thing about Luke he could possibly like.

“At the hospital, when your eyes were covered — you knew exactly where I was in the room. And just now — how did you know I was in my quarters?”

Poe decides that if he’s going to be convicted of murdering the Last Jedi, he’s at least going to make himself comfortable before the homicidal rage takes hold. He sits down, uninvited (because despite all his superficial politeness Luke was, is and always will be the farmboy raised in the middle of a goddamn desert), on Luke’s neatly made bed, kicks his feet up on top of the covers. “You dragged me all the way here just to ask me about that?” He puts his hands behind his head, lays back. The smell of the sheets and the pillow are still doing it for him four years later, he notes glumly, but that can’t really be helped at this point.

“Yes,” says Luke, still writing at his desk. “That is what I dragged you all the way here to tell me.”

He shrugs, even though Luke can’t see it. “I can… I don’t know, sense it, I guess.”

That makes Luke stop, turn in his chair to regard him — though he does purse his lips in disapproval at Poe’s boots on the bed. “What can you sense?”

“You,” Poe says. “And other people, some of them, anyway. Your Academy kids. There’s a few pilots who I can kind of… I can tell where they are if we’re in a room. But you’re the strongest.”

“The strongest?” Poe would be getting irritated by now, but Luke does look honestly puzzled.

“You’re the one I can — I always knew when you were at the Institute,” he says, sitting up. “And if you were at the Academy, I could kind of… I don’t know. Like there’s a faint light a few miles away, and you know if you get close up that it’s really bright, but from a distance you just know it’s there, the direction it’s in.”

“Does it feel like light?” Luke asks, spinning back around in his chair and yanking out a fresh piece of paper, his right hand humming faintly.

Poe bites his lip. “Uh. More like heat. It’s not something I see or I hear, it’s…” this is why he’s never tried to explain it before, because it ends up sounding stupid. “I can feel it on my skin.”

As embarrassing as this is, Luke shows no sign of noticing. “Amazing. I’ve never heard of this happening to someone who wasn’t Force-sensitive before. How long have you been able to feel it?”

“Ever since I met you,” he says. “Since I was a little kid.”

Luke pauses at that, raises his eyebrows at him. “That explains a few things,” he says.

“What things? If you say what I think you’re about to say, I’m gonna bean you with your own lightsaber.”

“Not that,” Luke says, and the bastard doesn’t even blush, although who could tell with that pelt on his face. “But I’ve often found it… strange, how you were always able to find me so easily.”

“Why didn’t you ever ask me about it before?”

Luke shrugs, but his eyes are sparkling. “I just assumed you’d put a tracking device on me.”

“I could’ve definitely hidden it in that beard,” Poe mutters. “Seriously, it’s awful.”

“I’m sorry you think so, Poe.” He finishes up whatever he’s been writing and gets to his feet. “All right, this should be fun.”

Poe stays sitting on the bed because he’s honestly not sure what’s about to happen. “Should it?”

“Come on,” Luke says, and opens the door. “We’re going to experiment.”

Which is how Poe, sleep-deprived and still suffering a serious case of space-legs, comes to be standing in the middle of the Academy quad with a half-dozen Jedi trainees in a loose circle around him. Luke presents him with a blast helmet. “Are you trying to give me flashbacks?” he says, then looks at the helmet more closely. “This is my helmet.”

“Technically, it’s mine,” Luke says. “Your father gave it back to me a while ago when he was cleaning out the house.”

“Oh god, he was cleaning out the house?” Poe should’ve just pretended not to’ve seen the general’s summons and gone straight home. With any luck, Pops didn’t get rid of all the furniture and leave himself with a chair, a table, and a bed.

“I stopped him before he got rid of the curtains and the rugs,” Luke assures him, and puts the helmet on him. “Now, we’re all going to move around the field, and your job is to say who’s where.”

“Won’t be that hard to do if I can hear you,” Poe points out.

“Oh, I can fix that,” Luke says, and it’s like someone turned off the signal. He can still hear his own breathing, and there’s a sort of low, pleasant hum, but nothing else. Poe takes the helmet off to see Luke saying something — Poe only manages to lip-read the last word, “effective.”

“You better know how to undo this,” Poe threatens.

Luke gestures to the helmet. Over his right shoulder, standing a good twenty feet away, is Dagna, bouncing from foot to foot. Ben, looking as sour as ever, is a good thirty feet away. Poe can’t help the way his hands tighten on the helmet, but he sets his shoulders and puts it back on.

For the next hour he prays for death while pointing and shouting, “Hannah’s over here. Dagna’s that direction. Yeah, Ben, I know you’re still right behind me, like some kind of ax murderer.” They quickly find out that Luke can’t be close at hand at all, because he overwhelms everyone else; only with him clear down at the beach can Poe distinguish any of the others. He assumes someone’s writing down the results, because at long last there’s a tap on his shoulder. “Yes, Ben,” Poe sighs, “I still know it’s you.”

This time he gets a hard thwack on the helmet, and he takes it off, ready to clock Ben in his stupid face. Absence really didn’t make the heart grow fonder with this kid.

Ben is saying something; it’s sneering and dismissive, by the looks of it, and Poe won’t give him the satisfaction. “Sorry, buddy,” he says loudly, “But I’m not looking at your face hard enough to see what you’re saying.” _That_ gets a nice little reaction, but Poe can already feel Luke approaching again, and turns toward the path that leads down to the beach.

A hand — more like a claw — sinks into his shoulder, and Ben spins him around. This time Poe can’t help but understand. “My uncle,” Ben says, enunciating every word, “Won’t always be around to save you.”

“Who needs saving?” Poe asks, grinning, because this kid is unreal. “From _you_?”

He’s pretty sure Ben’s about to haul off and hit him, but fortunately the rest of his fellow students come running up to pull him back, some people using their hands and others the Force to put distance between them. They’re all talking — shouting, probably — but Poe still can’t hear a damn thing.

It’s easy to trace the animosity between him and Ben, starting with that disastrous first meeting back on Naboo. Poe’s made bad first impressions before; some of his best friends are the ones who hated his guts at first. But Ben is the one that’s stuck, all these years; it’s almost as reliable as a friendship, in a weird way. Ben’s been a constant, a touchstone to complain about or speculate as to who his _real_ parents are, since there’s no way Han Solo and the general could’ve produced such a snotrag. Luke said once that Poe’s dislike of Ben was one of his least attractive qualities, and Poe spent a week trying to find out if that meant Luke thought he had attractive ones, and if so, what they were.

Fortunately Luke reappears before anything actually happens. The kids swarm around him, dragging Ben along with them; Poe watches Ben say something that makes Luke’s eyebrows shoot up. There’s not much family resemblance, another reason people are always surprised to find out Ben is a Skywalker. Ben is a good half-foot taller, awkward and flailing, while everything in Luke is about containment and control. It’s terrifying to think that _Ben_ might be the legacy that Luke leaves behind.

Poe takes the opportunity to examine his helmet; it looks the same as when he’d last seen it, safely tucked up on a high shelf in his bedroom at Pops’s house. He wonders what else Pops has gotten rid of. He hopes _he_ still has a bed. Maybe he can make something up and convince Luke to share his.

It’s not quite the ear-popping sensation you get coming into atmo, but Poe works his jaw all the same when his hearing comes flooding back. He looks up; the rest of the trainees are wandering off, leaving Luke alone. “Did you get what you needed?” Poe asks him. “‘Cause I’m about to pass out.”

“Not quite,” says Luke, blithe. “How far away do I have to be before you can stop sensing me?”

Poe shrugs. He’d never had to measure it before. “I don’t know. Pretty far, I guess, but I’m not always aware of you unless—“ He’s not sure if he should admit this, but then figures, fuck it. “Unless it’s been a long time.”

Luke blinks. “Oh.”

“Like when you came aboard _The Avenger_ ,” Poe says, “I could feel you right away. But I hadn’t seen you for what, nine months?”

“Ten,” Luke says. “All right, then I’ve got another little experiment.”

“I keep hoping these are going to turn out to be fun,” Poe says, sitting down on the grass, “And they never are.”

Luke closes his eyes, and suddenly Poe can feel — it’s as though the warmth is leeching out of the air, gathering into a point above his head. He looks up and expects to see some blinding miniature sun, but there’s nothing there. He holds his hand up and his fingers brush through something so hot that he flinches away, checks his hand for a burn. “What did you do?” he asks, reaching out again. It doesn’t hurt, not really; he dances across the invisible sphere of heat with curious fingertips.

The sphere drains away and Poe can feel the softer warmth come flooding back over him, and he resists the urge to just flop onto the grass and bask in it. Luke takes a breath, opens his eyes again. “I used the Force, Poe.”

Poe glares at him and stands up. “Whoever told you you were funny, they were probably just being nice.”

Luke laughs, and bends down to pick up the helmet. “Here,” he says. “Go say hello to your father for me.”

Poe looks down at it, then back up at Luke. “You keep it,” he says, leaning forward until he’s just that little bit in Luke’s space, using the one inch of advantage he has. It’s easy to forget how unassuming Luke is, how much difference there is between the giant in his head and the man in front of him. Poe’s spent half his life tilting his chin up to look at him; there’s a part of him that still does. “Looks like you wanted it more than me.”

And he winks, darts forward and plants a kiss on Luke’s cheek, which would be a great way to infuriate him if it weren’t for that godawful beard. Poe makes a face as he backs away, enjoying Luke’s murderous expression. “I’m begging you,” he says, clasping his hands together in supplication. “Shave, for the sake of the New Republic.”

“You’re not actually synonymous with the interests of the New Republic,” Luke says, which Poe considers to be a pretty weak comeback.

“Just give me twenty years,” he says. “And Luke? If you’ve still got that thing by the time I’m a General, I’m gonna be really upset.”

  


*

  


The next time Poe sees Luke is a year later, at Pops’s house — his house — the house. “You didn’t shave,” he says, opening the door.

“You’re not a General,” Luke points out, but his smile is half-hearted at best.

“Come on in,” he says, stepping back and gesturing with his bottle. “You missed the party.”

There was no party. Pops died the way every soldier claims they’d never want to go: in his sleep, quiet and unobtrusive. The droid Poe had bought him last year sent a message to the hospital, but Pops’s notification protocol still listed Mama as next of kin; it took almost three days for Poe to get the news. He arranged for the cremation hunkered down in a Republican freighter, hurtling home.

Luke steps in and looks around. He’s dressed in black, no doubt out of respect, but Poe appreciates the effort. “You look good,” Poe says, taking another swig.

“You don’t,” Luke observes, making a grab for the bottle. Poe lets him. “What is this?”

“No idea,” Poe answers. “I’ve decided to continue Pops’s work and clear out the whole house.”

“Starting with the liquor cabinet, I see.” Luke takes a sniff and recoils. “All right, you’re not having any more of that.”

“Okay,” Poe says, because he’s pretty sure that cabinet hasn’t been touched since before Mama died, and she’d always kept it well stocked. There are dozens of bottles of all shapes, sizes, and descriptions; he just has to lean down and pluck another one out.

Only Luke takes that one away from him, too. “You don’t drink,” he chides. “At least, not that I’ve heard.”

“Been checking up on me? I’m flattered.” He grabs another bottle; Luke looks like he wants to take that one, too. Poe drinks; it tastes absolutely foul. “Too late,” he says. “You ran out of hands. Wait,” he realizes, “Is that offensive? Sorry.”

Luke just gives him a disappointed look and puts the two bottles down on the kitchen table. “Drinking won’t actually make you feel better,” he says. “In case you were wondering.”

“Well, we can always go out back and cuddle under my tree,” Poe offers. “That worked out pretty well the last time I had a dead parent.” Luke winces, but now that Poe’s thought about it, it doesn’t seem like a bad idea. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

It’s about halfway through the winter cycle on Yavin Four; he grabs his jacket and Luke bundles back into his robe. “You’re still going to be cold,” Luke says. “And alcohol depresses circulation.”

“You know, I’ve heard about that,” Poe says, dragging him outside. “It’ll be fine.”

He can see his breath the minute they step off the deck, but there’s no snow yet; between Luke and his tree and the alcohol, Poe’s as warm as he’s ever been in his life. “Hold on,” he says, stopping Luke in his tracks so he can stand midway between him and his tree, its blue-green leaves rustling. For a moment he just soaks in it, closing his eyes and spreading his arms to feel every inch.

When he opens his eyes, Luke is watching him closely. “What?”

“You look…” Luke looks up at Poe’s tree. “Can you feel that same energy coming from the tree? That you feel coming from me?”

“It’s not like you,” Poe replies. He sits down at the base of the tree, curling his back against it. “But… yeah. Something. It’s the only thing I can feel as strong as you.”

Luke’s eyebrows shoot up. “Interesting.”

“Not really,” Poe says, taking another swig. “Come here.”

“On the ground?” Luke says, wrapping his cloak around himself.

“You know, for a rebel leader with a rathtar-tamer’s beard that I happen to know once got stuffed inside a _dead tauntaun_ , you’re really prissy.”

“It doesn’t look comfortable,” Luke says, although he makes a face at the rathtar-tamer’s beard comment. “And I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“You’re forty-one,” Poe points out. “If you break your hip sitting on the ground, I promise to nurse you back to health.”

“That’s not the incentive you think it is,” Luke grumbles, but he sits down, their shoulders brushing. “Interesting that you can sense the Force through the tree, not just through people.”

Poe violently disagrees with what Luke finds interesting. “Well, it’s the grandkid of the original tree, right? Maybe that tree was, like, the source of the Force.” He hears what he’s saying and starts giggling.

Luke makes a disapproving noise he probably learned from the general. “Are you going to give me that bottle or am I going to have to take it from you?”

“I’ll only give it to you if you drink some.”

Incredibly, Luke does, coughing almost immediately and setting Poe off again. “This is definitely going to kill us,” Luke says, examining the label.

“What a way to go, though.” Poe leans his head back, resting it against the trunk. “Did you ever figure out why it is I can sense you when I’m not Force-sensitive? You were all giddy about those experiments, but then I never heard much.” He tries not to sound sulky about it, but he can count the messages he’s gotten from Luke in the past year on one hand.

“Things have been… difficult,” Luke says, and before Poe can ask what things he continues, “But to answer your question — you are, a bit. Not enough to become a Jedi, but your mother had it, too.”

“Really?” Pops never talked about it; it took him years to be able to talk about Mama at all. “Is that why she was such a great pilot?”

“Your mother was a great pilot because she was intelligent, resourceful, and a brilliant strategist,” Luke says. “She was slightly… luckier than most, that’s all.”

“Not at the end, she wasn’t,” he says, and takes the bottle back. “How is it that I’m still—“ he can’t think of a way to put it. He takes another drink.

“Still more upset about your mother’s death than your father’s?” Luke finishes. “There’s no right way to feel about this, Poe. I hope you know that.”

The bottle’s almost empty at this point; Poe should’ve brought out more, hidden one up in the hidey-hole of his tree. “So I’m a little bit luckier than most, too,” he says. “So what, some Force-users can just pick other ones out of a lineup?”

Because he’s a good man, Luke takes the hint. “Most ones with a strong ability can. Me, Lor San, Snoke — that’s why they’re teachers at the Academy in the first place. Neither of them want to become a Jedi at their age, but Lor San is good at finding new talent. I’ve never met someone with so little ability who feel it as strongly as you do, though.”

“Thanks,” Poe says.

“I wonder why you can sense me so much more easily,” Luke muses, scratching his back idly against the trunk of the tree. “I don’t think I can be _that_ much stronger than the others.”

Poe smiles. “Must be love.”

Luke gives him a look. “Or the early exposure sensitized you somehow.”

“You think I’m allergic to you?” Poe asks, amused at the thought.

Luke considers it seriously. “Reactive, might be a better word.”

“That’s a pretty good word for it, all right,” says Poe. He shifts over, facing Luke. “So how drunk do we have to get before you start lowering your standards? I made second lieutenant, by the way.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in the galaxy to make me lower my standards to second lieutenant,” Luke warns, grabbing the bottle. He frowns down at it. “You drank it _all_?”

“I,” Poe explains, “Am drowning my sorrows. And hoping to get lucky, a little bit, maybe.”

“You’re not _that_ lucky,” he says, but he searches Poe’s face. “Do you think it would help with this?”

Poe slumps forward, resting his chin on Luke’s shoulder, breathing him in. “There’s a lot of ‘this,’ here. I’ve got to figure out what to do about the house, I’ve got to message about three dozen people who haven’t even talked to Pops in years because he was a goddamn hermit, I’ve got to transfer his holdings. I’ve got to get rid of his clothes,” he realizes, and somehow that hurts worse than anything else. “How did you deal with it when your aunt and uncle died?” Luke never talks about it, but Poe still remembers the talk under this very tree.

“Well, the Stormtroopers pretty much obliterated everything,” he admits, “And they never had much to begin with. As a matter of fact, a few years after Endor, Leia and I went back to Tattooine to see if there was anything left.”

“Was there?”

Luke makes an uncomfortable face. “Not after the relic hunters came through,” he says. “There’s a very, very big church in Mos Eisley now that has an adjoining museum full of ‘artifacts’ from my aunt and uncle’s home. Including old shoes that I’m pretty sure didn’t belong to any of us and the entire south wall of my bedroom, including the char marks, since they lend authenticity.”

Poe’s problem about what to do with Pops’s old speeder doesn’t seem so bad now. “What the hell? Can’t you stop them? That’s… so creepy.”

“I tried,” Luke sighs. “But Leia and Han talked me out of flattening the whole place.”

“Hopefully with everyone inside it,” Poe mutters.

Luke smiles at that. “But I did have the rest of my aunt and uncle’s compound demolished into particulate,” he says, offhand. “There’s only sand, now. No way for anyone to know there was ever a settlement.”

“Wow,” is all Poe can think of to say. “You never told me about that.”

“Blame it on the… Cytelian death rum,” Luke reads off the label.

“So the moral of this story is, Luke Skywalker has always got it worse,” Poe concludes.

“There’s no moral,” he says. “Unless it’s that death is an awful business.”

Poe puts his cheek on Luke’s shoulder and closes his eyes. “Well, if you want some of Pops’s old shoes, I can tell you definitively that they all belonged to him.”

Luke’s jaw brushes against his hair. “Hmm. So what will you do with the house?”

“I don’t know. I can’t sell it, but I’m never here. Pops’s droid isn’t equipped to do any kind of real maintenance. And I’m pretty sure I can’t afford a full time house-and-tree-sitter. Unless you know somebody I can hire on the cheap.”

“Hmm,” Luke says again.

“You’re saying that an awful lot,” Poe says. He’s just about to fall asleep when Luke jostles his shoulder. “ _What_?” he complains.

“What about me?”

Poe lifts his head, tries to blink his way back to consciousness. “What about you?”

Luke gestures around them. “I’ve been thinking of finding a place,” he says. “Away from the Academy, where I’d have more space.”

“You could move into a trash compactor and have more space,” Poe points out. “So — what, you want to buy my parents’ place?”

“Rent,” Luke amends. “It’s a nice home, Poe. The prefabricated houses have held up well, and I’ve always liked the design.”

The design of the prefab houses are ugly as hell, but Poe has long since given up on trying to teach Luke anything about style. “So I’d be your landlord,” he says. “Does this mean I can sleep over whenever I’m in the neighborhood?”

Luke smiles serenely. “Of course. I’ll be at the Academy most nights, anyway.”

“Man, you just think of everything.” He rests his cheek on Luke’s shoulder again. “You’ve got to read the tree a story every night, okay? That’s one of the requirements for for tenancy.”

“Deal.”

“And no guests for over two weeks. Unless it’s me.”

“What about family?” Luke asks.

Poe thinks about it. “The general and Han and Chewie are fine. No Ben, though.”

Luke chuckles. “All right. What else?”

“Don’t get too lonely out here,” Poe yawns, wrapping his jacket more firmly around himself.

Luke lifts his arm and curls it around Poe’s shoulder, the cloak settling over him. “I won’t,” he promises.


	4. Chapter 4

The next time Poe sees Luke, it’s halfway across the galaxy and in the middle of an all-call, sirens blaring. D’Qar Base has a dozen of these per week, but the Resistance is still small, still weak, and so everything really _is_ an emergency. Poe is running for the control room (BB-8 complaining at his heels) when he realizes he’s not sweating under his jacket or running a fever. He looks around wildly and runs smack into the general.

“Shit—“ he reaches out to steady the general, who doesn’t look like she needs steadying. “Sorry, sir.” Luke is standing right behind her, in a brown-grey robe and looking… Poe can’t tell.

“It’s fine,” the general says, amused. “Get your ass down there.”

Poe glances at Luke again; he wants to say something — anything — but in six months of being a traitor to the New Republic, Poe’s learned that the general expects her orders to be obeyed immediately, if not sooner. “Yessir,” he says, and as he jogs down the stairs he hears the general complain, “You two, I swear,” and Luke say, “What? What did _I_ do?”

The Resistance, which apparently is the name that’s going to stick even though Statura made a compelling case for “The Resurgence” and General Lando refuses to call them anything other than “The Rebel Alliance Part II: Rebel Harder,” is stationed in the middle of one of the lush jungles that wrap around D’Qar’s equator, within easy distance of a freshwater lake and abundant game to supplement the crates of Fleet rations. Elsa Goode, one of the handful of survivors of the massacre, has been teaching survivalist courses on Taungsday and Benduday afternoons, and there are weekly games of speed-holochess that are played for blood and honor. You'd never know that they were declared outlaws by almost every governmental body in the sector.

He gets down to the control room and reports to Major Nunb. “All ships accounted for, we’ve got a half-dozen extra droids if we need them.”

“We won’t!” He checks something off of his omnipresent board. “Go find somewhere else to hover!”

Poe slips into a gap between Captain Ematt and Lieutenant Datoo. “Any clue what’s happening?” he asks.

“Scanners picked up a dreadnought-class vessel approaching the outer system,” says Datoo. “It should be here in a few hours.”

That’s not good. “Have they broadcast a message? Do they know we’re here? Do we even know which side they’re on?”

Datoo shakes his head. “No messages received, and we don’t have ID capabilities on the long-range scanners yet. All we know — it’s big.”

General Organa comes in, flanked by Luke and Han. “All right. Admiral, would you like to apprise everyone?"

Admiral Ackbar clears his throat. “A New Republic dreadnought is looking for us,” he says to the room. “We believe they have been conducting a systematic search of the Outer Rim in hopes of finding us.”

“Where they got the idea that we were here,” the general grits out, “I don’t know. But I do know that they won’t engage if we agree to surrender all deserters immediately, for court martial.”

There’s an inhale of breath around the room. Half the Resistance is made up of people like Poe — people like the general — who took leave (and/or an X-wing) and never went back after the Trillia Massacre. “And if we don’t?” asks Admiral Statura.

“Then it gets interesting,” the general says.

“Do they even have legal authority here?” Ematt asks. “The Outer Rim is outside their jurisdiction. Even if we did have deserters in our ranks, which—“

“Which of course we don’t,” chimes in the murmured chorus right on cue — from the half of them that aren’t deserters.

“—It’s not as though we’ve signed any mutual exchange treaties with them.”

“Not to mention we’ve got a half-dozen missions operating in the First Order’s sector alone,” says Guich. “If they want us to hand over our men immediately, we’re going to have a hard time doing that.”

“Are we even putting that idea on the table?” Statura demands. “Why should we let them come in here and just take whatever they want?”

“The big ship in the sky, for one,” Han snaps. General Lando, sitting in one of the only chairs in the room, claps a few times in pointed agreement.

“So you think _immediate surrender_ is the best tactic?” the general says, turning to glare at her husband. “We’ve been fighting off the First Order and the Confederacy on our own for the past five months, and I’d say we’ve done a hell of a job.”

“Against a handful of TIE fighters and sneaking into an outpost that’s guarded by a dozen clones, sure, _General_ , you’ve done great,” Han says. “But playtime is over, and we’ve got to either cut and run or make a deal.”

“I’m certainly not making a deal,” sniffs the general.

“And I hate to say it,” says Lando, getting to his feet and turning on the projector, “But cutting and running may not be much of an option either — that dreadnought’s not out there to find us. They want to drive us out.” He points to a half-dozen green purple dots on the map, all clustered near the Ileenium system. “Into _that_.”

“Hounds to the hunters,” Datoo mutters. “Lady of Grace defend us. That’s a quarter of the Republican battleships in this sector.”

“Somebody’s very serious about finding us,” Poe says. He wonders who.

Meanwhile the commanding officers are still arguing. “So it’s lose most of our fighters and fliers, or lose everything?” Guich rumbles.

“You assume we would lose,” says Ackbar. “I do not believe it is quite so obvious.”

“Do you have a Death Star you’ve been hiding on your pocket?” demands Han. “There are five hundred of us and five hundred thousand of them. Unless my math is off, that means we make nice.”

“You’re forgetting one key fact, General Solo,” says the general, clearly holding onto her temper with both hands and her teeth. “Which is that I would be obliged to go as well.”

“So what you’re saying is,” Lando says brightly into the sudden silence, “I get a promotion out of this.”

Judging by the look on Han’s face, he did forget. “Well—“ he starts, then stops again. “I mean. We could tell them you’re not here?”

The room starts murmuring; Ematt blows out a breath of air. “What a mess.”

“Do you think we could do that? Hide the general somehow?” Poe asks him. It’s a terrible plan, but it seems like the least terrible plan they’ve got — the Resistance can go on without Poe and the others, but it can’t lose the general.

“Sure,” says Ematt. “But the only way we’re getting _her_ to agree to it is if we tie her up and throw her in a hadlap’s pit for the next few days. And even then, she’d have us all beheaded.”

“This is like your mother knocking on your door and saying you’ve got five minutes to turn out that light or else,” Datoo grumbles.

“Too bad we can’t just hide under the covers so she doesn’t see the—“ Poe stops, thinking hard. He looks around, but everyone’s still arguing with their neighbor; the general looks like she’s about to deck Han any second and Luke is…

Luke is bored, clearly, gazing off into space. Poe hasn’t heard from him since deserting; in fact, the general specifically forbade him from making any contact with Luke or anyone on Yavin Four. She and Han apparently made arrangements for Ben to stay in Luke’s charge while they went off and started another guerrilla army, but if they’ve talked to him since, Poe hasn’t heard about it. He wonders how Luke found out about the dreadnought. He wonders why Luke waited until now to join them in the first place.

But his idea can’t wait, and so he takes a breath and raises his hand. He’s barely cleared to even be in this meeting — he’s the senior pilot on base because the only other pilot here today is fifteen years old and keeps drawing designs all over her X-wing’s nose. “Sir?” he calls, when the hand doesn’t do the trick. “General?”

The room starts to quiet down, and Poe tries not to think about how much he’ll never fly again if this idea is as stupid as it sounds in his head.

The general looks surprised. “Captain Dameron?”

“Sir, I was thinking,” he says, and licks his lips. “There’s another option. We could hide.” It gets a chuckle, but Poe notices Lando lean forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, and that’s enough encouragement for him. “We’ve got about—“ he looks at the map, but he can’t see what information he’s after, so he magnifies and does some quick and dirty math. “—Five hours before the dreadnought gets within range and does a planetary scan. We can shut down all electrical power on the base and make like a hole in the ground.”

“I think the big shiny X-wings and, oh yeah, _this building_ might tip them off, kid,” Han says, planting his finger on the console.

“ _All_ electrical systems,” Ematt says, thoughtful. “Including the forcefields.”

That starts another susurration; there’s less laughter this time. The only forcefields they have aren’t to protect against attack, but against the biggest pestilence on D’Qar: the dragon vine, which grows at roughly the same pace as a brisk jog. They haven’t lost anybody to it yet, but they’ve come close.

“If it gets into the base, we’ll have a lot bigger problems than the Republican Fleet breathing down our necks,” Lando says. “But… could work. How long would it take for the vines to cover everything?”

Guich was already doing the calculations. “Three hours, maybe less.”

Everyone turns to the general, who purses her lips. Five months ago, people would’ve been prodding her with suggestions, asking if she was seriously considering this, questioning her judgement.

Now, everyone just waits.

“All right,” she says. “Let’s go.”

There’s a lot more to it than that, of course. Poe gets a dozen or so of the comms staff to help him secure the X-wings, make sure there’s nothing the vines can eat on the outside and there’s no way to get to anything on the inside. Poe keeps every single one of them unlocked — if someone gets caught outside, they might not make it to the base but they could make it to the fighters. He hopes. He’s seen what’s left of animals too slow to get out of the way of a dragon vine.

They complete their inspections and do one last sweep of the airfield, then all troop back to the base, Poe counting off his charges as they file in ahead of him. He hasn’t had much of what the general calls “leadership training” and Han calls “bossing around experience” since the Republican Fleet’s view on that kind of thing is that unless you already know it, you don’t need to learn it. But she’s hinted at him often enough about taking more responsibility that he’s conscientious of what he gets, careful of who he has.

Almost everybody’s already inside, some of the young people and all of the senior officers carrying pillows and blankets. They have no idea how long this will last, and although most of their water supply and all of their rations are already stored in the main building, the makeshift barracks that have beds and changes of clothes and other mundane necessities are all made of sturdy canvas — ideal for the climate, not so ideal against carnivorous plant life.

Poe goes to check on BB-8; all the droids have been herded into a room on the lowest floor so no one trips over them while they’re deactivated. “This is very foreboding,” BB-8 tells him, rolling back and forth anxiously, a habit it’s picked up since hanging out with all these rebel droids. “Are you sure this isn’t permanent?”

“I give you my word of honor,” Poe says, crouching down to look straight into its lens, “I’m gonna come back down and turn you back on myself when this is all over, deal?” He sticks out his hand.

BB-8 looks at his face, then his hand, then his face again, and finally sticks out its connection plug. Poe clasps it and —“Ow!” he yells, jerking his hand back.

“Blood pact,” BB-8 says cheerfully.

“Okay, I’m also shutting you _down_ myself,” Poe mutters, and reaches for the switch. BB-8 chuckles to itself, pleased, before the light goes dim. Poe goes back upstairs, still massaging his hand, and runs into the general _again_.

“Careful,” she says, steadying him. “If you were anybody else, I’d accuse you of getting fresh with me.”

“If you were anybody else I wouldn’t be so tempted, sir,” Poe replies.

“Always a smooth talker, Dameron. Come on,” she orders. “As punishment for coming up with this plan, you get to sit at the big kids’ table.” She takes off down the corridor for her office.

“Sir, can I ask a question?” Poe says, jogging to keep up. He has no idea how someone that tiny can be that fast.

“If you’re going to ask if I’m single, I very soon might be,” she replies. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s Commander Skywalker, sir. How did he know about the dreadnought? How did he even know we were _here_? How did he get here before them?”

“He didn’t get here before them,” the general says, opening the door. It’s one of the few offices with a view, of sorts, with transparent aluminum windows that look out into the forest. Poe’s not sure that he wants to be somewhere he can see the vines coming. Luke and Han are already there, along with Lando. Poe tries not to feel extremely downmarket. “He got here _with_ them.”

Poe tries to parse the sentence in a way that makes sense. “I’m sorry, sir?”

The general sighs and takes a seat at her desk, and at that same second Poe realizes Han’s holding his blaster. And aiming it at _Luke_.

He doesn’t look particularly eager to fire, but Poe starts forward all the same. “Han,” he says, urgently. “What are you—“

“Luke’s our hostage, I’m afraid,” says the general. “Perhaps if he wasn’t quite so much of an _idiot_ , he wouldn’t be. But here we are. Skywalker men, always making good choices.”

“Skywalker women, always pushing their luck,” Luke shoots back, which is about as spiteful as Poe’s ever heard him get with his sister. “You can’t hold me here forever, Leia.”

“Can’t we, though?” Lando asks.

The general props her feet up on her desk, regards her brother over the vee of her feet. “You really have screwed things up royally.”

“Coming from a princess, that’s saying something,” says Luke.

Poe sinks into the nearest chair. “I don’t — I’m sorry, sir, I still don’t understand.”

“He didn’t come here to _warn_ us,” the general says. “He’s part of the search party, because my dear brother has a very nifty trick of being able to sense my presence whenever he’s within fifty parsecs.”

“I usually need to be a little closer than that,” Luke demurs. Han clenches his jaw, but is — strangely — silent.

“However much distance it is,” the general waves away, “All he has to do is be in the same system and I light up like a beacon. Of course I never bothered to learn that particular parlor trick, but I can’t deny it’s given him quite the advantage.”

Poe closes his mouth with a snap. “Is it true?” he asks Luke, who is staring impassively out the window.

“I’m here at the request of the Senate to mediate a reconciliation between the New Republic and the Resistance,” Luke says, sing-song, as though he’s been repeating it all day.

“And what kind of reconciliation are you hoping for, exactly?” asks Lando, looking skeptical.

Luke grits his teeth. “Anything that stops my sister from getting herself — and all of you — killed.”

“Okay, I’ve heard about enough,” says Han. He stands up.

Lando tosses two lengths of rope at Poe. He catches them and sits there, completely adrift. “ _Kiddo_ ,” says Lando, and gestures to Luke with his chin. “Just like I showed you in class, you remember?”

Poe was pretty sure up to now that he was having a nightmare, but Lando’s soft voice is a shock. He’s not dreaming, this is really happening, and so he gets up and crosses the room. Luke’s gaze on him is steady, impassive.

“Could you — put your hands together, please.” He shouldn’t be so polite, but Luke is extending his arms out to him, wrists crossed. Careful not to look him in the eye, Poe ties the rope around his wrists in a prisoner’s clamp.

“Okay, now over there,” Han orders, and Luke walks over to a short bench tucked in a corner of the room, a window behind it. If Luke wants a good view of the vines when the forcefield comes down, all he’ll have to do is turn in his seat and he can see them coming. “Dameron, his legs.”

Poe kneels down at Luke’s feet and ties the rope around his ankles. He feels defiled as he checks to make sure each knot is perfect, but he does it. “Prisoner is secure, sir,” he says as he scrambles to his feet, looking down at where Luke looks very small and ordinary.

“Yeah, about that,” sighs Han, and Poe turns around to see—

To see Lando and Han, pointing blasters at _him_. “Sir?” he asks, raising his hands slowly.

The general circles around her desk and steps in front of Poe, putting her hands on each of their weapons and shoving them down. “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

“Covering our ass,” Han says, and this time, Lando doesn’t toss him the rope, but walks over and holds it in front of him.

“Hands, kiddo,” he says, and it’s said so kindly that Poe starts revising the chances he’s in a nightmare.

The general, meanwhile, is still outraged. “Are you seriously suggesting _Dameron_ is a _spy_?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Your Generalness,” Han replies. “I’m just taking the necessary precaution.”

“Dameron’s been with us since the beginning,” hisses the general. “How can you think—“

“That he might be more loyal to Luke than to us?” Poe is staring down at where his hands are tied in front of him, so he doesn’t see see whatever expression is on the general’s face to make Han say, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Come on, Dameron, time to cosy up with everybody’s favorite Jedi knight.”

Poe stumbles over to where Luke is still sitting, still impassive; he makes a big show of moving over to make room. Poe sits down, numb. He can hardly feel it when Lando ties up his feet.

“Are you all right?” asks Luke, which is the first nice thing that’s happened to Poe all day.

“This isn’t how I thought this day would go,” he admits. Despite everything, he can feel himself relaxing — unspooling, may be a more accurate term. There’s a handful of Force-sensitive people on base, and the general’s presence is a constant warm blanket around his shoulders, but Luke is something else entirely. He straightens up from where he’d started leaning into Luke’s shoulder.

“Funny,” Luke sighs, “This is pretty much exactly how I thought my day would go.”

“Here I am hoping I’d surprised you,” says Han. He’s still got his blaster pointed right between Luke’s eyes.

“You won’t shoot me,” Luke says, with just enough confidence to make Poe wonder if he was trying something on Han. Poe doubts it will work; the general might not be a Jedi, but everyone knows she’s got a knack of getting people to agree with her. Han, as far as Poe knows, has never agreed with her once in his life.

“You may be right,” says Han. “But I’ll pull the trigger. And if I miss you, I might just hit the person sitting right next to you. Wouldn’t _that_ be a shame?”

“Han,” says the general, reproachful. “You don’t need to be quite so—“

“I am sitting,” Han says, very slowly and loudly, “In my wife’s office, waiting for man-eating plants to come and, _hopefully_ , not kill us all. The reason I’m doing that is because this scruffy little nerf herder,” and here Han gestures expressively to Luke, “Decided it would be fun to mind other people’s business. So yeah, I’m pretty sure we have to do this. I promise, if it turns out Dameron’s been a good little boy this whole time, I’ll get him his very own X-wing to make up for it.”

The general sighs deeply, and comes over to kneel at Poe’s feet. “Poe,” she says; she hasn’t called him that since he was eight years old and asking her to tell him the story about the Ewoks for the fifth time. “I’m so sorry about this.” She glances over at her brother. “ _You_ , I’m less sorry about.”

“Ben says hi,” is Luke’s response, and Poe flinches at the sound of the blaster’s safety snapping off.

But the general just shuts her eyes for a moment. “Good to see you’ve finally learned how to go for the throat, Luke,” she says, and gets to her feet. She goes to Han and snags him by the arm holding the blaster, dragging him across the room. Lando pulls up a chair, turns it around and sits backward on it so he can rest his shooting arm. His eyes never leave Luke’s face.

“So,” Luke says brightly, turning to Poe. “You’re a Captain, I see.”

“We’re making small talk now?” Poe demands.

Luke shrugs, watching Lando carefully. “Unless that’s not allowed.”

“I’d avoid discussing escape plans,” Lando says. There’s a kick in the teeth behind those words, the implication that Poe’s already turned traitor, but Poe remembers taking Lando’s class on subterfuge and smuggling years ago. “Nobody’s your friend,” he’d said to the packed auditorium (the mascupreferential students had a tendency to fill up the front rows. One time Jess had written “I LOVE YOU” on her eyelids on a bet). “Out there you’ve got associates and you’ve got a job. That’s it. You start bringing _feelings_ into it, you’re going to die fast.” It’s understandable, in a sickening sort of way.

So he tells Luke, “Yeah, I made Captain. You know how it is: smaller force, faster promotion.” He forces a smile, hoping it’s not too unsteady. “Hell, we don’t even _have_ Brigadier generals.”

General Lando looks back and forth between them. “Do I want to know?”

“No,” Luke says heavily.

“Yeah, _neither did we_ ,” Han says from across the room where he’s fighting with the general.

“Interesting command structure,” Luke observes to Poe. “Three Generals who can’t agree on anything — two of them criminals, no less — an Admiral who was ready for retirement twenty-five years ago, and a base of operations you’re hoping to conceal with a bunch of plants. Not to mention a chain of command that’s built on so much trust and respect that they threaten the lives of their own subordinates in order to blackmail people into good behavior.” His smile is cold and very distant. “I can see the appeal.”

“It’s not about appeal,” Poe says. “It’s about—“

Just then a klaxon blares, the sound reverberating against the glass at his back. “Attention, attention,” Statura’s voice booms over the comms. “Shutdown in five minutes. Get comfortable, folks. And keep the chitchat down; we’re operating at under fifty decibels for the duration. We’ll flash a visual sig once we’ve got an all-clear, so if you can’t see between four and seven hundred nanometers, get cozy with somebody who can. Remember your clear-out teams for post-op; flamethrowers are lined up right next to the exit, courtesy of our fearlessand newly-minted Homicidal Gardening Division.” There’s a muffled cheer through the comm, and Poe can hear the smile curling in Statura’s voice. “Repeat, shutdown in five. Actually four and a half now, Guich, do we have—“ and the comm shuts off.

Luke looks around. “Fifty decibels?” he asks.

“Didn’t we mention?” says Lando, stretching. His blaster never wavers. “Dragon vines can detect sound; that’s how they find all those tasty morsels they like to grab. If we’re real lucky, a D’Qarian elk might wander through the compound and you can see firsthand how they go for the kill. Last five seconds of your life is spent getting impaled by a plant the width of your fist. Not a great way to go.”

This actually seems to make an impression on Luke. “I see.”

“But hey, feel free to talk however loud you want,” Lando says. “That glass might be strong enough to hold ‘em back. And if it isn’t,” he shrugs, looking rueful. “You two will have bought us time to get through the blast door. So thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome,” says Luke, sour.

Han and the general are still arguing, but at least Han’s put his blaster away for now. “I really hope you don’t want to hatch an escape plan,” Poe mutters.

Luke snorts. “Would you actually help me?” His tone says he knows the answer.

“Nope.”

“That’s what I thought.” Luke leans his head back against the glass, shuts his eyes.

“So that’s it?” Poe asks, weirdly put out. “You’re not going to try to talk me into surrendering? Tell me I’m wrong — we’re all wrong — for leaving?”

“I’m not going to tell you you need a haircut, either,” Luke says. “I assume you can look in a mirror and see for yourself.”

“Wow. So you’re not mad, you’re just disappointed.”

“Oh, I’m plenty mad.” He hasn’t even bothered to open his eyes. “You deserted your post.”

“I _followed the general_ ,” Poe retorts. “You can’t seriously be looking for an apology.”

“If I thought for a moment you were looking for forgiveness, I’d tell you to go back,” Luke says. “Do you want me to say you were wrong to desert? You were. You _are_. So is Leia. This isn’t how to solve the problem.”

“The Trillia massacre wasn’t a _problem_ ,” Poe hisses, just as the lights flash brightly, three times, and then go dark. Through the glass he can hear the generator powering down; for a split second the buzz of the forcefields is the only sound, before it snaps off too. Then, complete silence.

Luke shifts around to look out the window. “I don’t see anything,” he says, but even he keeps his voice down.

“You will,” mutters Lando.

Sure enough, it doesn’t take more than a minute for the dragon vines to make their appearance; thick as a Wookie’s arm, with constantly moving tendrils sprouting out from the sides like tentacles. Luke blanches. “ _That’s_ what you want covering the base?” he whispers to Poe.

“Not really, no,” Poe hisses back. “But there aren’t a lot of us deserters who are all that excited about going back to face court martial.”

“This is one hell of a way to get out of it, I’ll admit,” Luke says, peering down as one gropes blindly toward the barracks below. “How do they grow so fast?”

“Each shoot has a — like an ice pick, pretty much,” Poe says, because Goode’s seminar on Things We’ve Found Out Want To Kill You On This Planet had been both comprehensive and nightmare-inducing. “It drills a hole right through you, and the smaller tendrils are able to grow out through the, uh,” he tries to remember the phrase Goode had used. “Ground up remains.”

Luke blanches as another vine makes its way up the base’s building. “Lovely place you have here.”

The general’s office is on the top floor, which means they have a distressingly good view of the progress. For the next hour or so they all watch in silence as a green blanket spreads over the airfield, the X-wings, the barracks — everything. It’s quiet outside, too; the vines make almost no noise as they move, occasionally darting into the earth only to explode back up in a muted shower of dirt and rock.

“I’m amazed at this plan,” Luke murmurs into his ear. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Really?” Poe says. He doesn’t headbutt Luke in the nose, but he’s tempted. “ _You’re_ the reason we’ve got to hide, and they’re going to come looking for you anyway. Why’d you even come? All you had to do was point the general out on a map. You wanted to rub our noses in it first?”

“I wanted to save you from a fight you couldn’t win,” Luke whispers back. “I know the Trillia massacre was… handled badly. But running off and starting a militia doesn’t fix what happened.”

Poe doesn’t expect to be this angry, but he’s seriously never hated Luke more in his life. “The Confederacy killed eleven thousand defenseless civilians, and they did it for _fun_. They used rathtars, did you know that? Herded all the kids into a stadium and—“ he bites off the rest, because he can hear his own voice getting louder. “Kala’s little brother was in that stadium. And the New Republic did _jack. Shit._ ”

“ _Kala_ is still with the Fleet,” Luke points out, bloodlessly, “Because she knows her home planet isn’t part of the New Republican alliance and isn’t within their jurisdiction. What should we have done, Poe? Accuse the the most powerful Imperial faction of a crime we have no way of proving they committed? Violate every treaty we’ve signed for the past twenty years? Start another intergalactic war for the sake of—“

“Say it,” Poe demands. “Say ‘for the sake of a few thousand people.’ Say it so I never have to look you in the face again.”

Luke balls his hands into fists under the restraints. “I know you think the Resistance can do what the New Republic can’t,” he starts.

“I think the Resistance can do what the New Republic _won’t_ ,” he hisses. “You’re obsessed with peace at any price. These factions aren’t going to stop, Luke. They really think they can bring back the Empire, and as long as people like you just sit on your asses and do _nothing_ to protect—“

The crack of the glass is deafening; Poe can feel it reverberate through his entire body. Han, Lando and the general all lunge to their feet; it’s gratifying that they dart toward him, instead of away, before freezing in their tracks.

Luke’s hand is on his shoulder, gripping tightly. “Don’t move,” he mouths.

Poe doesn’t. He can hear the grinding noise of the vine through the glass, trying to get through it to the living creature beneath. There’s another crack, and another, at the level of his heart.

Luke is watching whatever’s happening behind him; judging by his expression, it’s not good. He glances up at Poe. “It can hear your heartbeat.”

That, unfortunately, doesn’t slow his heartbeat down. Poe tries not to panic. He can’t get away or it’ll hear him. He can’t stay put because it _already_ hears him. In his peripheral vision he can see the general and Han and the others lift their weapons, preparing to fire at — not at him or Luke, but at what’s about to tunnel through his chest and kill him in five agonizing seconds.

Luke’s hand slides down his shoulder and splays across his chest, and Poe’s a hair’s breadth away from laughing, because really? This is what it takes for him to get frisky? But he looks up into Luke’s eyes and he can feel his heartbeat slowing, fading away beat by beat. It’s not a trance, exactly; Poe can still blink his eyes, could probably move if he wasn’t scared shitless. But everything about him seems to pause, for long moments. He can’t really tell if he’s breathing.

The vine is still trying to get through, but Luke just watches him, a faint smile on his face. He looks older, Poe realizes, older than just six months ago. Luke has always been the gold-headed god of his church, the icons Poe tucked away in his heart as a child still big and bright on his altar; but looking at him now, Poe sees the grey that’s crept up from his beard into his hair, the crow’s feet and dark circles that limn his eyes. In the whole of the galaxy, no one has ever found the secret to immortality, but Poe finds himself strangely humbled to think that even Luke, touched by the grace of so much suffering and redemption, hasn’t been granted some key to eternal youth.

There’s blessed silence for a few moments, and in the rush of his returned breathing he can hear the sound of the vine slithering up the glass and away. The next second Han is on his knees in front of them, slicing through the ropes at their ankles and hauling them both up and away from the window. “That was fun,” he remarks.

The next twelve hours are spent in shifts, sleeping and napping and playing some card game that Poe suspects Lando invented for the sole purpose of making the general laugh. After the scene at the window, Luke and Poe aren’t held at blaster-point anymore and Poe loses his restraints, but the general keeps Luke’s arms bound. “You know I could get out of this whenever I want,” Luke murmurs, as Lando deals him in for another round. In the past few hours they’ve all gotten acclimatized to whispers.

“Let me have this,” the general says. “When the dreadnought comes looking for you, I want to at least say we held you hostage. I’ve got my pride.”

“They’re not going to come looking for me,” says Luke.

The general looks extremely skeptical. “Did you finally manage your little mind-trick on an entire ship?”

“No,” says Luke testily, “I _lied_. I told them I could only sense you if I was within orbital distance of each planet, and that it was faster if I conducted the survey of each star system myself.”

“And they believed you?”

“That part might have taken a little… persuasion,” Luke admits. “We’ve been conducting a sweep of every likely system; they’re under the impression that even if I _am_ lying, you’ll panic and try to flee when the ship shows up on sensors. Hence the blockade.”

“So, where does that leave us?” Lando asks, glancing at his hand before immediately folding. “We’re doing all this for nothing?”

Luke shakes his head. “They’ll scan each planet with long-range sensors; it wasn’t an… entirely stupid idea to turn off the generator.” That’s probably the closest thing to a compliment Luke’s going to give Poe for a while, so he’ll take it. “But as long as I come back in the next few days and report that I didn’t find anything, they’ll be on their way.”

“And is that what you’re gonna do, if we let you go?” asks Han. He doesn’t have the blaster out anymore, but the hairs on the back of Poe’s neck still stand straight up.

Luke doesn’t look worried, just tired. “Is there a promise I could make that you’ll believe?”

For long minutes, the general doesn’t say anything while she stares at her brother. “You know,” she finally says, “When I was a little girl I used to dream of having a brother or a sister. Someone I could trust with all my heart, share all my secrets with. Isn’t it funny how life works out?”

“I used to dream about you too, Leia,” Luke replies, so soft Poe’s not sure he heard it, but the general’s eyes go overbright and she looks down at her hands, clasped in her lap.

At last they get the all-clear; the dreadnought’s finished its long-range scans, at least as far as their one solar-powered detector can determine. Now it’s just a question of cutting a swathe through their new murdercarpet to Luke’s shuttlecraft, so he can take off and tell the Fleet — Poe still isn’t entirely sure what he’s going to tell the Fleet.

It only takes a few hours to get that much incinerated; the dragon vines leave behind bracken that’s flammable to the point of starting a few accidental wildfires when they first got here. Eventually they clear off Luke’s shuttle and Poe’s instructed to escort the prisoner out. Han hands him his blaster; it’s probably his version of an apology.

Luke doesn’t say a word as Poe directs him out of the base and across the airfield. On either side of them, people are taking shifts with the flamethrowers and machetes, careful to dodge any vines that get too close. His plan worked. Kind of.

“Why didn’t you say what the Fleet was planning?” he asks Luke as they arrive at his shuttle.

Luke opens the door and looks inside. “Well, partly because nobody asked, but mostly because I don’t like being treated like a traitor before I’ve opened my mouth.”

“So you did it out of spite,” Poe concludes. “I guess I can respect that.”

“You probably shouldn’t,” Luke mutters. “So, I don’t suppose I can convince you to come back with me.”

There’s a part of Poe that wonders what promises he could extract from Luke, what kind of bargaining chip it would be to sacrifice his principles for a chance at forgiveness. “We did the right thing,” he says, because he doesn’t want forgiveness, or promises — not as much as he wants Luke to understand. “Forming the Resistance — we did the right thing.”

“Poe,” Luke says, stepping close and Poe should probably be worried about the fact that he doesn’t even lift the blaster in self-defense, “The right thing — it isn’t something that you do once, so you can look back and say you did it. You have to keep choosing, every day — every single time — to do the right thing. And even then you can’t ever say you’ve done it. It’s never done.” He lifts his hand, hesitates. “If you stay here, can you keep choosing the right thing?”

Poe swallows, tries to get his voice back. “I’ll try,” he says.

It makes Luke smile for some reason. “Someone once told me that there is no ‘try,’” he says. His hand drops. “But I believe you.” He turns to get onboard.

“How’s the tree?” he asks, before Luke can shut the door. “Is the house okay?”

Luke looks down at his right hand as he flexes the fingers, clenches them into a fist. “Everything at home is fine,” he says.

  


*

  


The third time Poe tries to seduce Luke, it’s mostly not his fault. In fact, it’s not even his idea.

Luke shows up again almost a year later, as close to crazy-eyed as Poe’s ever seen. He walks straight into the building, sliding through the command center like he belongs there, and Poe goes after him in the hopes he can distract him before he does… whatever it is he’s about to do. He hasn’t heard anything about Luke siding definitively with the Republic — no one’s heard anything from Luke Skywalker, for all that there’s been speculation and a few documentaries about the Skywalker Legacy, which had the general kicking at least one new dent in her desk. But this doesn’t seem like a friendly chat.

Unfortunately the Force doesn’t like him as much as it likes Luke, its chosen disciple, and so he has to fight through the same crowd that parts around Luke. He catches up just in time to see the general’s door sliding shut, and hesitates for a good minute. But nobody else on the entire base seemed to notice Luke in the first place, so he takes a breath and hits the chime.

The general answers, looking thunderous, but her expression clears when she sees him. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yessir,” Poe says. “Is…” he looks over her shoulder at where Luke is — pacing, which Poe hasn’t seen him do ever. “Is everything all right, sir?”

“I don’t need you to call a surgical strike on my office, if that’s what you mean,” she says. “Go away. It’s fine. And don’t tell anybody who my guest is.”

That’s an easier order to follow without Han on base, running a mission against the Dawn Army, but Poe goes and finds himself something productive to do far away from other people, like hitting his fuel gauge with a hammer until it stops reading 1/3 full at all times. An ensign — he doesn’t know her name, but there are dozens of new people arriving every day, which is one excuse he can tell himself as to why nobody noticed Luke come waltzing in — comes and fetches him a few hours later: the general wants to see him.

“Come in,” the general says. Poe steps just inside and hears the door shut behind him. He’s already dreading whatever comes next.

Near the window — still cracked — Luke pulls a face. “Really?” he asks the general.

“Really,” she says. “And it’s more than the Republic is giving you, so shut up.”

“Isn’t there someone… else?”

“ _Hey_ ,” Poe says. He doesn’t even know what he’s being volunteered for, but he’s damned if he’s going to let Luke Skywalker, the galaxy’s most famous fence-sitter, cast any kind of aspersions.

“Lots of people,” says the general, cheerful. “But Poe’s got a real gift for this kind of work. And if you’re wrong—”

“I’m not wrong,” says Luke, and Poe thinks how fortunate it is that these two _didn’t_ grow up together, because otherwise they’d be goddamn unbearable.

“What’s the target, sir?” Poe asks, focusing on the general because that’s his boss and because now that he knows Luke’s not there to stage a coup or something, he’s back to his baseline of being pissed off at him.

“Master Snoke, if we’re lucky,” the general says, and without looking, holds her hand up to prevent Luke from saying whatever it is he’s opened his mouth to say. “Luke’s looking for him. He went missing last month — kidnapped on a trip back to his homeworld, it seems. The cruiser that was carrying him was found drifting in space a week later; everyone aboard was dead and Snoke was gone.”

Poe frowns. “Why haven’t we heard about this, sir?”

“Because the Senate didn’t think it was worth relaying to the public,” says the general, circling around her desk to sit. “And because our network isn’t all that concerned with getting the latest news from the the Republic.”

“So what,” Poe asks Luke, “You want our help finding your kidnapped professor?” He tries to keep the edge out of his voice, but he doesn’t try very hard. Over the past year they’ve been dealing with people just like him from all over the Republic, treating the Resistance like a bunch of yug-hunters, there to do the jobs they can’t be bothered with.

“He hasn’t been kidnapped,” Luke replies.

“ _You think_ ,” amends the general, “He hasn’t been kidnapped.”

“And I’m right,” Luke says, stubborn. The general gives him a look over the top of her pad.

This could go on all day, so Poe says, “What do you need me to do, sir?”

“I need you to go with Commander Skywalker here and talk to one of Han’s contacts,” she says. “Him and Chewie would be perfect for this job, but they’re busy.”

“Doing what?” asks Luke.

The general just glares at him. “What I tell them to, unbelievably enough.” She turns to Poe. “Have you met Maz yet?”

“Sorry, sir — with all the new people on the base, I haven’t met everybody yet.”

For a moment she stares at him, then bursts out laughing. “I was just picturing Maz working for us,” she says, chuckling to herself. “Oh boy. No. She’s got a cantina out here on the Outer Rim, about halfway between here and the First Order’s current favorite watering holes. She probably won’t talk to Luke, but she’ll talk to you.”

“Why won’t she talk to me?” Luke demands.

“Because she doesn’t like whiners,” she says, upon which Luke pulls such a disgruntled face that Poe has to cough to cover his laugh. The general, as amused by Luke’s reaction as he was, and moreover under no particular obligation to hide it, grins at him. “She’s from a race that’s Force-sensitive, and a little bit…” she waves her hand around.

“Mystic?” Poe tries. Luke glares at him.

“Good a word as any. She can read you like a book, and she doesn’t particularly like the Jedi. The old _or_ the new versions. But you,” she says, “She’ll like fine. Just remember to wear something that makes you look good.”

“I’ve got just the pants, sir,” Poe says. Luke’s face is going to freeze that way, he thinks, as he’s dismissed to go pack.

The ride to Takodana is quiet; Luke lets Poe pilot, which seems like a compliment until he pulls out a book that looks like it got dragged out of a well — smells like it, too — and reads in silence for the entire trip. The silence is awkward, then oppressive, then boring, and finally just infuriating. Poe takes them out of hyperspace to orbit around the small planet and he can hear his molars creak.

Maz Kanata’s castle is something out of a fairytale; the courtyard is filled with podracing flags dancing brightly in the wind, from every team Poe’s ever heard of and a lot of them he hasn’t. A round eyehole, at about hip height, opens up.

“Password?” comes a booming, growling voice.

Luke looks back and Poe, who spreads his hands. Sighing, he bends down and says, “We don’t need a password.”

“You don’t need a password,” the doorbeing agrees, and that sounds promising — only there’s a alarm going off and the sound of protestations from inside. Poe can hear the doorbeing getting reamed up one side and down the other by a woman with a demanding, querulous voice and a slight Inner World’s accent. After a moment of foreboding silence, the second voice comes on. “Oh,” she says, sounding disgusted. “The Last Jedi. What an honor.”

Luke seems nonplussed. “I — was hoping to speak with Maz Kanata,” he says, still crouched low over the eyehole.

“That’s what you’re doing,” says the voice. “For the moment.”

Poe leans against the door. He doesn’t want this mission to be a failure, but he’s pretty okay with it being Luke’s problem if it is.

“We’d like to discuss some information you have,” Luke tries.

“We? You said ‘I’ earlier. Who’s the other one?”

Luke grabs Poe by the wrist and drags him down, shoving him in front of the eyehole.

“Ah,” says the person who is evidently Maz Kanata — the eyehole sees him but he can’t see a thing. “Better. All right. But if you try that little trick of yours on any of my staff again, I’ll be writing a stern letter to Han Solo.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Luke mutters, grimacing at the pain in his back.

“Need help?” Poe asks, getting to his feet.

“No,” he grits out, straightening up with a wince.

The door opens and Poe is engulfed by the sound, the _smell_ — nothing unpleasant, but invasive, filling his nostrils and catching in the back of his throat. He’s so busy looking around that he almost misses their hostess, standing there with her hands on her hips.

“So. The Last Jedi,” she says. “I don’t like you.”

“I get that a lot,” Luke says, but she’s already moved on to examining Poe. She’s got some type of reticulating goggles that make her eyes look enormous and faintly terrifying. Despite that, Poe likes her almost immediately. He kneels down on one knee and holds out a hand.

“Poe Dameron, ma’am,” he says. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, and thank you so much for allowing us into your beautiful home.”

“I can see why he brought you along,” she says, but her smile seems genuine. “Come on. You too,” she adds absently to Luke. Poe bounces back up to his feet and gives Luke a broad wink.

“Some day,” Luke says darkly as they follow Maz through a labyrinth of tables, chairs, and occupants, “You’re not going to be able to do that anymore.”

Maz darts up a dark staircase, and Poe absently thumbs his blaster, casing for ambush points. “What, get up off my knees?” he replies, all set to make an inappropriate joke when he remembers he’s mad at Luke.

Luke, however, doesn’t seem to have forgotten that he’s mad at Poe. “Charm your way through,” he says.

Poe bares his teeth. “We can’t all use the Force to make people do whatever we want.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Maz says as she opens a door in the corridor and waves them inside. “My god, you’re worse than Han and Leia.”

It’s a small chamber high up on the wall of the castle, with a sturdy round table that looks like it’s been there at least a few hundred years. Three walls are covered with tapestries; there’s no fourth wall, just a sheer drop down onto the band, which is currently playing some incredibly dirty riff off of a childhood counting song Poe vaguely remembers. Maz gestures at the table. “Sit down. What do you want?”

She’s not looking at Luke, who has chosen — of course — the seat with its back to the empty air. If he’s relying on the Force to protect him from someone shooting him in the back, Poe’s going to kick him into the brass section himself. But Maz is waiting for an answer, so Poe clears his throat and turns on a smile. “Maz — may I call you Maz?”

“Absolutely,” she replies, looking delighted.

“We’re looking for information about a cruiser that was boarded about a month ago, just outside of the Pobrellian system.”

“The _Emblazoned Star_ ,” Maz says.

This is going a lot faster than Poe expected. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Hmm,” she says, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes.

“Do you know who boarded them?” Luke asks, after almost a minute has gone by. Poe kicks him under the table.

She opens one eye and regards Luke, “He’s very irritating,” she says to Poe, confidingly. “What’s the appeal?”

Somehow it’s utterly unsurprising that she knows, although he can’t help the pang of disappointment at her clear disapproval. “Ma’am, if I knew, I’d figure out how to make it stop.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Luke points out, and Maz laughs.

“I have a hard time believing, young man, that nobody’s ever told you you were irritating before.”

“The names of the pirates who boarded that cruiser and killed all those people,” Luke presses. “Han said if anyone this side of the galaxy would’ve heard anything, it would be you.”

Maz turns back to Poe. “That doesn’t sound like Han, does it?”

Poe’s halfway tempted to agree with her, but they’ve gotten this far, and fucking up Luke’s mission isn’t going to help anybody. “It’s true though, isn’t it?” he asks with a smile.

“Could be,” she says, mollified. “I hear a lot of things. But Han would have told you there’d be a price. You didn’t bring me anything of value, did you?”

That hadn’t been part of the briefing. Poe has access to bribe money, but whatever Maz charges is going to dwarf that by some considerable amount.

Luke leans forward. “I’m not going to _take_ anything of value,” he says. “How about that?”

For a moment, Maz looks shocked, then peers closer at him. She fumbles at her goggles; Poe can’t see what she’s done from this angle, but Luke looks mildly alarmed.

“You know, there was a time when I couldn’t wait to meet a new Jedi,” she says, still looking closely at him. “Find out what they thought, what they believed. See if one of them, just one in a thousand years, would be anything but a disappointment.”

“And what do you find disappointing in me?” Luke doesn’t sound snide, or cutting. He sounds curious.

“Not as much as I’d expected,” she says. She flips a switch on her goggles and turns back to Poe. “I might know someone here who may, perhaps, be able to tell you more about an incident not dissimilar to the one you describe; but they’re very distrustful of humans. You’ll have to be circumspect. And _discreet_ ,” she adds, swiveling around to look sternly at Luke.

“He can be,” Poe says. “Sometimes.”

“You’re an unreliable character witness, my dear,” Maz tells him, not unkindly. “They won’t talk to you without an introduction from me.” She looks Luke up and down. “I have your word, then?” she asks.

“I’d like to know how you got it,” Luke says, inscrutably.

“A good question,” she answers, “For another time. Wait here. I’ll send up drinks, and once I find your friends, I’ll send them up too. But I’m not kidding about them, Last Jedi. They’re going to _smell_ something’s off if you’re not careful, and if they do—“ She shrugs. “I wouldn’t tell them who you are, if I were you.”

“You don’t think they’re going to know who I am?” Luke asks, skeptical.

Maz snorts. “Did you notice any genuflecting when you walked past? The galaxy’s a big place. And nobody here thinks much of religion.”

“I’m not a god,” Luke points out.

Maz shrugs as she gets up. “All I ask is don’t throw anyone off, and don’t let them throw _you_ off. You need to kill each other, you shoot each other in here like civilized people.”

“I applaud you for prioritizing the safety of your clientele,” Poe tells her.

“You have no idea,” she mutters as the door swings closed behind her.

“Where did you _learn_ that?” Luke says, sounding torn between disgust and admiration.

Poe gives him a look, settles his jacket a little looser on his shoulders. “What, do you really believe all your students think you’re _that amazing_?” It’s clear Luke’s decided to be more disgusted, so he changes the subject. “What was that about, anyway? What aren’t you going to take?”

Luke is clearly not in the mood to tell him, but huffs and says, “She has my lightsaber.”

Poe feels his eyebrows rise. “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t,” he says, because he’d seen Luke tuck it into his boot before they’d disembarked.

“Not this one. This one I made myself. That one… has a more complicated history. I lost it a long time ago.” He drums the fingers of his right hand on the table, thoughtful. “So what’s the plan?”

“What?”

Luke rolls his eyes. “Did your general talk up your qualifications, or was charming a bar owner considered ‘gifted’ in the Resistance? Maz Kanata said we shouldn’t tell these people who we are, and I’m under oath not to do that little trick I do.”

It’s hard to suppress seventeen years of instinctual hunger for validation, but as long as Luke keeps waffling on who to support, Poe’s going to do his damnedest to squash it. So he ignores Luke’s attitude and focuses on the question. “Even with what Maz says, the chances of you not getting recognized are pretty infinitesimal — if these guys know who took Snoke, they’re gonna know you. So we need to bluff about something else.”

“I’m not following.”

Poe tries to figure out how to phrase this. “The Jedi are famous in a… an abstract way,” he explains. “Most people don’t know anything more than that it’s a type of wizard or warrior monk, something along those lines.”

“‘Warrior monk’?” Luke echoes.

“Just go with it. People hear about the light side and the dark side or whatever, but nobody here is going to believe that crap. A Jedi isn’t going to be seen as better or worse than anybody else, just more powerful. You’re going to have needs, some of them not so virtuous.”

Luke purses his lips. “Am I into bestiality, or do I just collect artisanal sex droids?”

Poe bites down on the inside of his cheek because he absolutely refuses to laugh at the jokes of somebody he wants to strangle this badly. “You want somebody else out of the way,” he replies. “And you want to hire the same people who did the last job.”

“Wait — so now _I’m_ the one who hired the pirates to kill those people in the first place?” Luke demands. “That’s a hell of a bluff.”

“That’s why it’ll work. Jobs like this, there’s always intermediaries, which is who Maz is probably talking about. They ‘might know something’ because they’re the ones who took the job for the pirates the last time. And all we have to do is say that the people who hired them the last time were intermediaries, too; you’re rewarding them for a job well done by showing your face this time.”

“Where _did_ you learn all this?” asks Luke, after a moment.

“It’s been a long year,” Poe says, because he really doesn’t want to talk about all the missions he’s run, first with Han or Lando, then on his own, worming his way through dozens of different seedy dives and nauseating watering holes, charming information out of drunk and handsy and very, very dangerous people. He looks down into the hall; everyone looks very small from up here. Then he catches sight of who Maz is talking to; as he does she points up at them, and he manages to turn away before the two she’s talking to follow her finger. “ _Shit_.”

“What is it?” Luke, because he is occasionally not an idiot, doesn’t turn around to see what’s behind him.

“Maz’s contacts — they’re not intermediaries. And they _know_ me.” He doesn’t add how, because that hadn’t been a fun night. “They might buy your act, but they know I’m Resistance and they’ll put it together and drill a hole right between our eyes. I’ve seen them do it.” He can’t look down again, so he tries doing the math; ten seconds to get up from the table, maybe another forty to get from the table to the stairs, twenty for the stairs and ten for the corridor outside. “I can’t leave — they’ve already seen me in here with you.”

Luke is pale, but he takes a deep breath and doesn’t suggest they jump out onto the nearest chandelier and make a break for it. He does say, “Then I’m very sorry about this,” and grab Poe by the hair.

He’s yanked off his chair and onto the floor by Luke’s side just as the door opens, his cheek smashed into Luke’s thigh. “Are we interrupting something?” rumbles Big Boskk Man; even the stone floor seems to shift under his weight. “I’d hate to intrude.”

“Knocking is pretty well universal, even out here, isn’t it?” says Luke, and if Poe wasn’t pressed so close he could feel the vibration of his voice he’d swear it didn’t sound like Luke at all.

“What an excellent suggestion,” and that one’s Jester, slipping in from behind Boskk. “Clearly we have a clever one.” She crawls over a chair to crouch next to Poe. He wants to flinch away from her — she _looks_ human, but she’s definitely, positively not — but Luke’s hand is still fisted in his hair, and mostly he’s thinking about how much it hurts. “Mmmmmmm I recognize this one. This one was very nice. When did you learn to stay on your knees so nicely, Poe Dameron?”

“Is that his name?” says Luke, jerking Poe’s head so he’s staring up at the ceiling with his neck a painful arch, Luke’s gaze impassive on his face. “I won him in a card game a few weeks ago. He’s learned a great deal more than staying on his knees, I promise.”

Jester reaches out a black-tipped finger and touches his chin, claw scraping down his throat. “Mmmmmmm you simply _must_ give a demonstration,” she purrs.

“Maybe later,” Luke says. “Please, take a seat.” Thankfully, his grip loosens and Poe can breathe again. He stays right where he is, though; mostly because as far as last-minute undercover plans go, this is actually not unprecedented (although the time he’d had to pretend to be Chewbacca’s new boyfriend had been a trial).

And partially because he’s so hard it _hurts,_ and sorely tempted to crawl between Luke’s knees claiming authenticity of the role. Join the Resistance, he thinks glumly. Meet new people, visit new places, have whole new sexual experiences you never imagined. He shuts his eyes and rubs his face idly along Luke’s thigh, hiding his grin at the thought of what Luke’s expression must be right now.

He hears the door open and the sound of something large and heavy being heaved through the doorway. “Maz, such a kindness,” says Boskk. “I’m afraid, sir, that my constitution is a bit much for these delicate chairs, but Maz is always so very accommodating.”

“I certainly am,” Maz says from the doorway. “Here are your drinks, and since this gentleman is new here, I’ll provide a gentle reminder of the ten percent fee on any job agreed to on premises. I don’t care which one ofyou pays, but you’ll keep it in mind, yes?”

“Why would we pay you?” asks Luke, combing his fingers through Poe’s hair, scratching slowly at the base of his neck. “And why did you bother getting something for this?”

There’s a slight pause, and Maz says, “I see. My apologies, sir. I thought your… companion might want something.”

Luke laughs. “I know what he wants,” he says. “Take it away.” Poe shudders, and takes a deep breath. He’ll deal with the horrific implications of getting hot at the idea of Luke saying he know what he wants later. Right now he has to do his part to get them out of this situation — with the information they want, ideally, but more importantly without a hole in their foreheads.

The door shuts and Boskk leans in, the table groaning. “Now, sir, I understand you’d like to speak with us. Well, I’m sure we’re always very happy to make new friends, but you’ve got us both quite curious about that little companion of yours. Last we saw him, he was quite a bright and cheerful chap. For a while, at any rate.” He chuckles, fond. “Jester here can be so rough sometimes.”

The hand in his hair presses down for a moment: possessive. “I’m looking to pay someone for a job,” Luke says, “Not for their curiosity.”

“Oh, by all means,” says Boskk. “But put yourselves in our place — an ex-pilot, a member of the little Resistance, at the feet of Luke Skyskipper?”

“Skywalker, my beloved,” Jester sighs.

“Is it?”

“It is,” Luke confirms. “As for what’s at my feet, I don’t particularly care. I’m not sure why you would, either.”

“Mmmmmmm maybe it’s because he has a blaster on his hip,” says Jester, and he feels her toe prodding at his belt, deftly lifting out the blaster. He keeps his hands on the floor because going after it is quite literally suicidal, but he can’t help twitching at the feel of her this close. “Not the typical accessory for a plaything.”

“Just because he’s broken doesn’t mean he’s not useful,” Luke replies. “I let him pilot the shuttlecraft; does that mean you’re going to take that from me, too?”

“Possibly,” Jester says, the awful curl of a smile in her voice. “Just how did you break him, Luke Skywalker? When I tried he bent _ever_ so far, but I did not have the pleasure of hearing the snap.”

Luke adjusts his grip on his hair again — it hurts worse this time, and this is great because Poe’s aching now, thrumming with it. “All you have to do is convince them they’re in love,” he says offhand. “After that, they’ll crawl over coals for a chance to lick your boots. If anything, this one was embarrassingly easy.” He turns Poe’s head this way and that. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, tears in his eyes. “Yes, please, _please_.”

“Sounds to me like he wants a chance at more than your boots,” Boskk sniggers.

“If you don’t mind,” Luke replies, and for a second Poe thinks he’s going to walk them out of here before they actually get any information, but instead Luke yanks on his hair again, drags him up so he’s kneeling next to him, one hand on Luke’s knee for balance. He licks his lips and meets Luke’s gaze.

“Okay?” Luke breathes, close enough to brush his nose against Poe’s.

Poe nods, even though it hurts with the death grip Luke’s got in his hair. “ _Please_ ,” he says.

Luke lets him go just a little too quickly, his eyes just a little too wide, but Poe covers by swinging a leg over to settle himself in his lap; he can’t help the instinctive jerk up and against him, needful, pleading. “Remember, it’s got to look real,” he hisses into Luke’s ear, and it’s probably mean to suck on his earlobe but Poe’s never been good at letting go of grudges.

“I remember,” Luke answers, and the hands on Poe’s ass indicate he’s really committing. He pulls Poe in, right where he’s — _oh_ — hard and Poe is all about seizing opportunity so he finds Luke’s mouth, bites at his lower lip and licks away the sting. Nothing about this is good (it’s so good) and he knows that there is no redemption after this, but he’d rather be a devil in Luke’s church than a saint shut outside so he grinds down against him, hissing at the pleasure of it. Luke holds him in a death grip, both hands painful on Poe’s thighs but he blesses every bruise he can feel forming, feels his body seize in hallelujah when Luke moans.

There’s a guffaw from Boskk.

Poe drops his head down onto Luke’s shoulder, lets him commence business negotiations while he stays in character as the fucked up, fucked out plaything. He’s desperate for release, every shift an agony, but Luke slides his left hand under Poe’s shirt and presses flat against his back, and the contact clears his head enough that he’s able to focus again. His position now gives him a view of the entire hall, and his breathing slows as he watches the ebb and flow of the crowd — only two of whom seem aware of anything happening up here. “Two guards watching,” he murmurs against Luke’s neck. “Probably with our guys. They don’t look friendly.”

Luke’s hand at the small of his back moves, his fingers tapping out a rhythm. It’s familiar, but it still takes Poe a second to recognize Basic pulse code, and manages to catch “—something I don’t know.”

He grins at that. Keeping an eye on the exits, as well as the two suspicious guards, he whispers, “If you shove me down on the table and fuck me, that’ll definitely convince them.” He whimpers as Luke’s fingernails claw at his back, but it just prompts him to spread his legs wider, curling them up around the back of the chair, shameless, even as he gets back to telling Luke something he doesn’t know. “One of them’s a Lorlock, guarding the front door, but his wings are clipped so he’ll only be a threat close up. The other one’s a droid watching the crowd, probably thinks we have people down there. And,” he adds, because good undercover work is all about immersing yourself, “I want you to do it, hold me down and fuck me open, I’ll beg for it, I’ve wanted it for years, and—“ he gasps at the press of Luke’s fingernails again, “And I like it when you hurt me.”

Abruptly the hand at his back is gone and Luke is yanking at his hair _again_ , sending him sprawling onto his back. The conversation stops. “Something we said?” asks Boskk, the soul of courtesy.

“He asked if he could come,” Luke replies, aggrieved.

Jester tsks.

Luke puts a boot carefully on Poe’s throat, pressing down just enough to make him dizzy. “Now, as we were saying. I understand you did an admirable job with Master Snoke just last month. I want something along those lines.”

“ _Master_ Snoke,” says Boskk, amused. “A funny name for that funny man.”

“I don’t suppose it’s too presumptuous to ask what he paid you?” Luke says, the pressure on Poe’s throat increasing just a fraction, warning. Poe’s not really in much of a position to ask him what the hell he’s talking about; it’s easier just to focus on getting as much air as he can. He hopes Luke realizes that if things get ugly, which they probably will, he’s going to need at least thirty seconds to wheeze and about ten to come in his pants. Hopefully they get that kind of lead time.

“Oh, that was more along the lines of a favor, really,” says Boskk. From his vantage point under the table, Poe can see Jester still holding his blaster with her foot, prehensile toes toying with the trigger as she points it straight at Luke. He’s going to get a lot less than thirty seconds, he realizes. Probably less than ten. “Tossed in for free — the least we could do, really.”

“Are you always so free with your favors?” asks Luke. “Because I’d be happy to owe you.”

“Mmmmmmm that’s a tricky one,” Jester replies, sounding mournful. “ _Master_ Snoke, you see, gave us a much bigger job than that — it’s why we were prompted to such generosity.”

“And what was that job?” asks Luke, and Poe gets just enough leverage to kick Luke’s chair off the ledge as Jester flicks her finger at him — a projectile, in fact, one that would’ve gone straight through Luke’s head and out the other side if he wasn’t falling to his hopefully-not-death below.

He rolls to the edge, ducking the blaster shot that slices just over his shoulder, and looks down. Luke is alive and mostly unhurt, although that string section will never be the same. “Come on!” Luke calls, holding out one hand.

It’s a horrible idea, but Boskk is on his feet and lumbering toward him and Jester is already swarming over the table, flexing her fingers as she cackles something high and keening. He pushes off and falls, but something warm and safe and familiar catches him, lowers him gently and sets him on his feet.

He looks up, but Boskk and Jester aren’t trying to shoot at him; evidently Maz’s rules about killing bystanders is one that everybody follows. Speaking of which — “Do you _know_ how expensive a Luruzian harp is?” wails Maz, hitting Luke firmly on the hip.

“I’m incredibly sorry about that,” Poe says, still gasping for air in between the impromptu autoerotica session and almost getting impaled on a cello. “If you speak with Han, he’ll assure that you’re more than compensated for—“

“Where’s a back way out of here?” Luke says, and Poe thinks maybe they don’t need him in the Resistance anyway, because he is _shit_ at subterfuge.

Maz gives him a look. “You think your problems are over once you _leave_ here?” she says. “House truce only lasts as far as that door, Last Jedi. After that, Boskk and his buddies will be all over you.” She looks thoughtfully at Poe. “You, I might be able to help. There’s no price on _your_ head, as far as I know.”

“You knew there was a price on my head?” demands Luke, and Poe kicks him in the ankle again.

“Of course. Didn’t you?”

“I don’t have my blaster,” Poe says, “But I can cover you if we make a run for it—“

“That’s not an option,” Luke snaps. He kneels down, looks Maz in the eye. “Do I have your word he’ll be safe?”

“Safe for how long, Last Jedi?” Maz pats his cheek. “Your young man does not want to be _safe_. But he will come to no harm on this planet. How does that sound for a word?”

“Luke, what are you doing?” Poe hisses.

“My best,” he answers. He scowls at Poe. “Go. I’ll find my own way out. Meet me by the lookout point on the lake.” He holds out his hand to Maz. “And I give you my word, Maz Kanata, that no one will take what you have of mine.”

“Now _that_ is a word,” she says, pleased. “Nice doing business with you, Last Jedi.”

“Please,” he says, getting back to his feet, “Call me Luke.”

“The only way I’m walking out that door is with you,” Poe tells him flatly. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

“No, you’re not,” Luke agrees, and puts his hand out, pushing Poe against the wall with the Force. Poe’s about to start complaining when Luke follows him there, crowds him against the stone.

It’s a softer kiss this time, exploratory; as though Luke’s curiosity has finally got the better of him and he’s gathering all the information available. Poe’s hands go to his waist on instinct, and Luke slides his thigh between his legs, just enough to remind Poe that he’s been half-hard the whole time, still humming with arousal. He sighs into Luke’s mouth, puts a hand to his cheek, finds he doesn’t mind the beard so much.

Then he’s staggering because Luke’s stepped back, breathing heavily. “You’re going to go wait for me,” Luke says, swallowing. “And we’ll… discuss things further.”

“Okay,” says Poe.

Maz snorts. “Interesting persuasive technique.” Luke bends down and whispers something to her that makes her laugh. “You’re absolutely out of your mind, Luke. But I like you now. Follow me — no,” she says, turning back to Poe. “Before you go, here.” And she tugs him down to press her hand to his forehead, closing her eyes and murmuring something. Her hand is ice cold, and when she removes it, the cold is still there. “No one will touch you, on that you can rely.”

“Can’t you just do that to Luke, too?” he asks, forgetting to be charming.

Maz snorts. “I could, but that would be foolish. I am a part of this fight, my dear, just as you are, just as your friend is. But I fight battles you have the luxury of never seeing. Luke can take care of himself, of that I am… eh, moderately confident.”

“Go,” Luke says, “Wait for me at the lookout.”

It’s a long walk to the lookout in the gathering dark, but Poe makes it in record time, a stitch in his side and more than a few pebbles in his boots. He climbs the ridge and up onto the overlook, fumbles in his pockets for his nightsighters and puts them on, checking his trail. A few people tried following him out of the courtyard, but they took one look at his forehead and left him, grumbling, alone. He wonders what the hell he looks like. There’s no one nearby, and not a sound except the gentle lap of water at the shoreline down below. Poe zips up his jacket; it’s getting cold with the sunset, the wind picking up. He can see just fine, but there’s nothing to see — the distant castle, the trees, something floating in the lake—

Poe’s heart drops and he scrambles down to the shore, scraping his hands against rock and dirt. The thing — it’s a body, Poe knows what a dead body looks like — is slowly drifting toward the shoreline, and Poe tries to wade out to it. Too late, he remembers that the waters on Takodana remain in liquid state well below freezing, and he has to stumble back to shore before he loses his toes. He won’t survive even halfway to the body; all he can do is wait for it to get closer.

It takes another half-hour for it to finally wash up on the sand and Poe heaves at the familiar clothes with numb hands. He stays perfectly still in his head while his body strains to drag the body up out of the water. There is no universe in which he is brave enough, strong enough to turn it over, but he does it anyway.

Luke’s eyes are closed, peaceful. Shaking, he puts his hand on Luke’s cheek, some kind of awful parody of what he’d done just an hour before. He has to get the body back up to the shuttle; has to send a message to the base, he can’t just arrive at D’Qar with the body of — the body—

Luke gasps, and coughs, and opens his eyes. “That,” he wheezes, “Was very cold.” He sits up, still coughing.

“You—“ saying _you’re alive_ seems a little on the nose. “You could be a professional haqi diver, if this whole Jedi thing doesn’t work for you.”

Luke gives one last cough. “It doesn’t, frankly.” He starts shivering.

“Come on, we’ve got to get you warm and dry,” Poe says, pulling him up and yanking off his robe and vest, leaving them in a soggy heap on the sand.

Luke looks down at them, frowning. “I don’t think this is quite the time,” he says through chattering teeth.

“Yeah, you should be so lucky,” Poe says, automatic, and takes his left hand. It occurs to him that this is the first time he’s ever felt Luke cold before; it’s terrifying.

Poe’s able to bundle Luke into some thermal blankets before taking the shuttle up off the surface and safe into hyperspace — handprint or no handprint, he’s not betting against anyone being fooled by Luke’s dead fish impersonation for long. Once they’ve made the jump, he puts the shuttle on automatic and goes back to check on Luke. He can feel the heat from the doorway, so he figures Luke’s doing some kind of Force trick to warm himself up and dry himself off.

Sure enough, Luke’s scrubbing at his hair, which looks dry if a little bedraggled. He glances up and smiles at Poe, wry. “Fair warning, I exited through the trash chute,” he says. “You might want to keep your distance for the return journey.”

“Are you all right?” Poe asks.

“Between falling thirty feet and nearly freezing to death, you mean?” Luke asks. “Thanks for the push, by the way. I don’t think I could’ve stopped her in time.”

“Don’t mention it,” Poe says honestly. “Did you get the information you wanted?”

Luke looks surprised. “Weren’t you listening?”

“I was… a little distracted,” says Poe, because he can still taste Luke in his mouth.

“Yes, well.” Luke clears his throat. “It seems that Snoke hired your friends for two jobs. One was the _Emblazoned Star_ ; they boarded and killed everyone except Snoke so he could get away clean. The other job — the bigger job, apparently — is to take me out. At least that’s what I gathered.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Poe warns him. “They kill a lot of people for fun, too.”

Luke sighs. “I probably shouldn’t ask you about the last time you met them, should I?”

“You really shouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry if they hurt you,” he says. “I’m sorry if I — if _I_ hurt you,” he adds, looking away. “I didn’t enjoy doing it.”

Poe resists the urge to go and kiss him — but then he doesn’t, lowers himself down between Luke’s knees and takes his head in his hands, reverent. “You really, really didn’t,” he murmurs.

It’s only the third kiss, not counting that episode on his sixteenth birthday; but already Luke feels familiar, belonging. For a moment Luke doesn’t move and Poe thinks, _this won’t be enough_ , but then Luke heaves a sigh and slides his hand, warm and possessive, along the curve of Poe’s spine. Poe abandons his mouth to bite at his neck and Luke tilts his head, lets him, and it’s all the absolution he could ever have prayed for.

“Please,” he whispers, nosing at Luke’s jaw, “Please, Luke—“

But at that Luke stiffens and takes a ragged breath, and his hands — one cold, one burning hot — press Poe’s shoulders back, pushing him away. “Stop,” he says.

“You have got to find a new word,” Poe says, keeping his hands on Luke’s thighs, his thumbs sliding against too-warm fabric.

Luke shakes his head. “I can’t do this.”

“You _can’t_?”

“I won’t.”

Poe sits back on his haunches, because that’s the kind of declaration that’s so deeply stupid there’s no response possible.

“All the reasons I’ve said no before are still there,” Luke continues. His hand on Poe’s shoulder feels like a brand. “Nothing that’s happened today is a good enough excuse to start something we’ll regret. It wasn’t _real_.”

“Real — okay, what the hell?” He brings his fists up and around the way he’s been taught, breaking Luke’s grip. “You’re seriously sitting there telling me that all of that was—“ he gestures, “ _Acting?_ ”

“You and I were in a dangerous position,” Luke says. “It’s only to be expected that there would be… repercussions, but you and I—“

“I swear to god if you tell me we’re two different people I’m going to break your fucking face,” Poe swears. “Why can’t you just _shut up_ for once?”

Luke sits back, pressing his lips together. He’s hard, Poe notices, hysterically. He’s lecturing him about responsibility and duty while his dick is —

He leans forward and gets a hand on Luke’s cock; Luke shuts his eyes, but doesn’t make a sound. “You’re always so damn sure of yourself,” Poe says, blasphemous, pushing himself back up between Luke’s knees and rubbing slowly at him, every jerk of Luke’s hips a victory. “You think everything’s about reasons or excuses, but if you want a reason, it’s because I have been waiting my whole _life_ for you. You think I’m going to let you go now? I’m here, Luke, and I don’t care if you want to die alone, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then don’t go,” says Luke, and this time his hands are pulling Poe back in, twining around him like branches. Poe’s head falls back as Luke grazes his teeth along his collarbone, devout, as he hooks his foot behind Poe’s thigh and drags him closer. Poe gasps as he presses up against him, aching and so much better than he’s ever hoped; he fumbles at Luke’s trousers, tries to focus even while Luke is whispering something, “Stay. Come home with me. Leave the Resistance—“

The world pauses. He looks up at Luke’s face; into his blue eyes, kind and very bright. “I—“ Something ugly in him tries to push out the words “ _yes, I will, I promise_ ,” but Poe swallows it down, feels the bile behind his tongue.

Luke strokes Poe’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “You can’t?”

Poe shakes his head. “I won’t.” Understanding drags at him. “Not even for you.” But he stays there, kneeling in front of Luke, until the shuttle takes them out of hyperspace into orbit around D’Qar. Luke keeps his arms around him, holds him tightly, his face pressed against Poe’s neck.

They land in silence, and Luke walks out without looking back. Poe doesn’t see him again for two years.


	5. Chapter 5

The second time Poe saves Luke, he accidentally starts a war.

Master Snoke, it turns out, has been running an exceptionally long game on everyone from the Republican Fleet to the general, who kicks a hole clean through a wall when they learn that the First Order has been under their noses and teaching their children for the past ten years. But knowing he’s working for them is one thing; finding him is another, and the Resistance turns up empty lead after empty lead. Snoke is either so low on their chain of command that no one knows anything, or (less likely) so far up that not even the braggart officers who enjoy visiting the sorts of haunts Poe is best at infiltrating will let his name slip. Poe would be less frustrated with his own failures if someone else was getting any further.

Luke, who brought this whole mess to them and dumped it in their lap, proceeds to go back to Yavin Four and pick up his Academy duties as though nothing had happened. “He just wanted confirmation of what he’d already suspected,” the general tells Poe one night, at the celebration of a successful mission against the New Empire’s home base. Half the officers are drunk and Poe’s feeling the warm glow of whiskey and a promotion.

“I don’t understand it, sir,” he says. “Luke’s willing to just let Snoke walk away?”

“He’s always seen the good in people,” she says. It sounds like an insult. “He probably thinks that Snoke will come back one day with a tearful apology.” Poe refills her glass, and she squints at him. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Major?”

“Sir, if ever I was so honored, I’d want to be stone cold sober for the experience,” he tells her, and she laughs and wraps an arm around him, squeezing him in.

“He’s doing what he thinks is best and staying out of it,” she sighs. “I wish I could respect him for it — but something else is coming, I can feel it. We need him, and we’re not going to get him.”

“Tell me about it,” Poe grumbles. They clink glasses.

After six more months, the general pulls Poe off intelligence and puts him back in the air; they’re losing too many pilots in routine skirmishes, and he finds himself in charge of a hundred men as a present for his twenty-second birthday. He scraps their current plans and stays up for days on end devising new strategies, arguing with Snap or Ello or Jess or Kala, who waltzes into the Resistance base one day popping her gum. “What a dump,” she observes succinctly, and appoints herself as Poe’s roommate and unofficial second in command. They don’t talk about what finally turned her, but at night she wakes up screaming, and Poe sits up with her for long hours when she can’t go back to sleep, coming up with new ideas that might keep them alive.

The Resistance continues to grow; they establish new outposts in the Outer Rim, scattering their senior officers across the galaxy. (The general stays put on D’Qar while Han takes over an outpost in the Huearian system; it seems to vastly improve their marriage as well as their efficiency.) They’re pushing back against the Imperial factions, winning more often than not, surviving losses more often than not. The New Empire goes out with a whimper the following year, its few remaining ships abandoned in the Outer Wastes, and the New Republic sends out a delegate to offer an accord with the Resistance.

But it’s still a victory by inches, the Resistance the only one willing to call any of what they’re doing a war. The New Republic labels them insurgents, the Confederacy denounces them as terrorists, and the Dawn Army takes the trouble to send back the bodies of soldiers they’ve captured with messages carved into flesh. “Rebel scum” is the kindest, and Poe spends a week hounding every pilot and soldier at D’Qar base to fill out the forms that dictate what they want done with any remains found; when it’s necessary, he makes sure everything is followed to the letter. It’s necessary far too often.

The First Order, by contrast, has practically disappeared. They don’t have the cloning technology of the Dawn Army or the preposterous wealth of the Confederacy; if it weren’t for reports of First Order amassing weapons and ships — if it weren’t for Snoke — Poe would think they’d finally given up and died out. As it is, he tries to enjoy the respite on at least one major front.

The Trillia Massacre becomes just another outrage compiled upon others, but they can’t help listening to the official line from the New Republic: that these are isolated acts of butchery, that the New Republic and the Imperial factions can coexist in this brave new galaxy. Poe wonders sometimes if he’s fighting out of sheer cussedness or if he’s waiting, like the general, for the other shoe to drop.

When it does, he almost misses it.

Part of the new unofficial accord with the Republic is the nullification of warrants for all deserters of the Republican Fleet; they’re still considered court-martialed by proxy, but they can at least travel through Republic territory without risk of arrest. Almost a third of the Resistance asks for leave at the exact same time.

“Isn’t responsibility fun?” says the general, finding Poe in his office (he has an office now, with a tiny window up near the ceiling, but after the dragon vine incident he considers that more like a plus) late at night, trying to arrange approvals so they can give everyone leave without decimating their forces.

“Sir, with all due respect, I can’t believe you did this to me,” he says feelingly. “ _Me_ , your favorite.”

The general lifts an eyebrow. “Wrong Skywalker,” she says mildly. “And speaking of which — I haven’t gotten any requests from _you_ just yet.”

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here,” Poe says. He means it, but it still sits in his mouth like a lie.

“That’s the most depressing thing I’ve heard all day, and I had to listen to Ackbar talk about his piles this morning.” She sits down in the chair opposite him, puts her feet up on his desk. “You’ve been working awfully hard, Dameron.”

“Coming from you, sir, that sounds like sarcasm,” Poe says. “Everybody’s been working hard.”

“Most of us have something to work toward, though,” she replies. “Something that makes it all worthwhile. Otherwise — what are we fighting for in the first place?”

Poe doesn’t answer. The general talks like this a lot; it’s not that he disagrees, but there’s not much to say when his only response is that he’s already lost what he was fighting for, that it’s ten thousand light-years away in his old house, sending him rent credits that Poe keeps stashed away on a high shelf and doesn’t touch.

“All right, you’ve convinced me,” the general sighs, “Your request is approved. There’s a shuttle leaving in two days for the Gordian Reach; if you’re not on it, I’m writing you up for insubordination.”

“Sir—“

“You are so welcome, Major,” says the general, getting up. “Say hi for me.”

Which is how Poe finds himself on Yavin Four two and a half days later with a duffel bag and BB-8, who had greeted his suggestions that it stay on D’Qar with bubbling laughter. The rest of his co-passengers disperse from the airfield, most trudging toward Capital Village and the New Republic base, but Poe squeezes the handle of his duffel and can’t decide where to go.

“It’s heavier here,” BB-8 observes, rolling around experimentally. “I will need to charge 5.93% more often.”

“You need to charge every four days, so quit whining.”

BB-8 looks up at him, and Poe wonders if he should take the opportunity of not being a wanted criminal and find the people who designed BB-8 and congratulate them; without a face, BB-8 is still managing to give him the fish-eye. “Let’s go to your house,” it says. “I want to take measurements of your magic tree.”

“It’s not my house anymore,” Poe says, but BB-8 is already bouncing away, dodging around people who watch it pass bemusedly. “BB-8, we can’t—“

“Too late!” Poe hears it beep, “I have the coordinates. We should be there in twenty-one minutes, less if you keep chasing me like that—“

They get there in thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds, BB-8 reports as they arrive. Poe’s too busy trying to reinflate his lungs to confirm the time, but after another minute he straightens up and looks around. Everything looks — familiar. The bushes in the front of the house that Pops had always kept neatly trimmed have grown wild and there’s a complicated rain-collector set up on the porch, the water filled past the brim and dripping idly out every time the wind blows across the surface. The porch itself has seen better days, the steps and part of the deck bent oddly; but everything else looks the same as it did throughout his childhood, familiar and safe and home.

“It is well within parameters,” BB-8 observes, which is its way of saying _nice digs_. “Where is your tree?”

Poe isn’t wild about sneaking around, but Luke isn’t there. “Come on,” he says, and leads the way out back.

He can feel the tree as soon as he comes around the corner, bigger than ever. Poe doesn’t run up to it and give it a hug, but as he smoothes his hand down the trunk he can feel his eyes pricking, a lump in his throat. “Hey,” he says softly, leans his forehead against the warm bark.

BB-8, about as sentimental as a toilet brush, buzzes around him collecting whatever measurements it’s been dying to get all these years. Poe doesn’t ask, just grabs a branch and pulls himself up into the branches. He stays there for almost an hour, not thinking about anything in particular, watching the sun through the leaves.

But Poe hasn’t seen a latrine since he left D’Qar twelve hours ago, and after a while he has to choose bladder over his sentimentality. Reluctantly, he jumps down and makes for the house. He’s still got a key; if Luke didn’t want him breaking in, he’d have changed the locks.

The door opens soundlessly, which is a change from the familiar squawk it had always made during his childhood. He steps inside and makes a beeline for the bathroom, but when he comes out he lingers, his hands in his pockets to resist the urge to touch anything.

It all looks very much the same, Mama and Pops’ old furniture slightly rearranged but kept in better condition than Pops ever bothered with. There are a few new paintings, artists and places that Poe doesn’t recognize, a blanket made out of tauntaun wool thrown over the back of the sofa. Poe glances down the hallway that leads to his parents’ bedroom and his, but he doesn’t go down there, doesn’t want to know what’s left. He goes into the kitchen, thinking vaguely that he’ll take something out of the pantry, rearrange the coffee mugs or something, and stops in the doorway.

Something is wrong.

The kitchen is clean, light pouring in through the windows, and other than a few dishes on the table, it looks fine. But Poe has been in Luke’s quarters at the Academy, knows how he feels about things left out of place. There’s something wizened and shriveled on the plate; he picks it up carefully. It’s a hyfruit - but the season has been over for almost a month. He looks around, trying to figure out what else is making all his alarm bells go off, but the room remains cheerful and sunny and utterly nondescript. He looks through drawers, checks the appliances, comes up empty. But he’s right.

BB-8 is still burbling to itself around his tree, and Poe has to swerve to avoid colliding with it as he comes back up the hill, going around to the back of the tree. He thrusts his hand inside the hidey hole, hoping there’s nothing there, hoping there’s something—

He pulls out Luke’s lightsaber. It’s hot in his hand, which is such a surprise that he almost drops it, but the heat isn’t painful or even uncomfortable. It’s incredibly heavy for how small it is, dense.

BB-8 comes up. “Is that not supposed to be there?” it asks.

“It’s definitely not supposed to be here,” Poe says slowly. “I think we’d better head over to the Academy.”

Easier said than done. The Resistance deserters might have been pardoned, but they’re hardly forgiven, and the base commander denies his entry onto the grounds. Ordinarily Poe would find a way to wheedle his way through, but there’s no one here he knows anymore, the teachers all new after the general’s dramatic walk-out a few years ago had left the base and the Institute with a half-dozen loyalists. So he nods understandingly at the guard and wanders off, BB-8 companionable beside him.

“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands, “Let’s go down and walk by the beach, it’ll be nice.”

“Sand is not nice,” BB-8 disagrees, but follows him anyway.

The stone wall that surrounds the Academy is still there, still with the section that’s just low enough to reach the ledge if you jump high enough and don’t mind yanking your arms out of your sockets. “You’re on lookout,” Poe tells BB-8 from the top of the wall.

“What am I looking out for?” it asks, reasonable.

“I’ll let you know,” Poe says, and jumps down onto the grounds.

The great thing about academic and military institutions is that once you’re inside, everyone assumes you’re allowed to be there. Plus, the Academy doesn’t churn through its students the same way that the Institute does; all of Poe’s friends are still there and presumably still speaking to him, even if it has been a few years.

He runs into Dagna first. “Holy balls of the creator,” she swears, grinning up at him and pulling him down into a hug, her fur rough against his cheek. “How are you? How is Kala? I heard she joined up. Have you gotten injured? Any parts of you cybernetic now?” She waggles her eyebrows, although with Ewoks it’s always hard to tell where those are.

Poe sighs, shakes his head. “You know, I kept hoping that the past few years had changed you, but here you are, exactly the same.”

“You love it. What are you doing here? I thought all Resistance scum were to be executed on sight.” She leads him over to a bench in the shade, climbing up so that her feet hang over the edge, kicking idly. “Or are you reforming?”

“I’m actually looking for Luke—“

She snorts at that. “What a shocker. He’s not here, though, so I’m afraid you’re just going to have to make do with me.”

That knot in Poe’s gut starts to get worse, but he leans back in the bench, gives her a grin. “I’ll settle, I guess. So what, is he off taking his first vacation in twenty years? I can’t believe he didn’t invite me.”

“To be fair, most of us assumed he _had_ invited you,” Dagna says, scrunching her nose at him. “He took off about a month ago, but he does that sometimes, you remember.”

Poe does remember; he ended up breaking into Luke’s scheduling program his second year to keep better track of when Luke was planning to be away, just to mitigate the shock of waking up chilled and irritable without understanding why. Luke had found out his final year and sighed, heavily, but hadn’t changed his security protocols, which at the time Poe had assumed was as good a declaration of true love as he was ever going to get.

He’s trying to think of a way to ask more questions without sounding like he’s asking more questions when Dagna scratches at her ear, contemplative. “He’s never been away this long, though. And Tekka threw a _fit_ about it, because apparently Luke didn’t tell him a thing beforehand. But he should be back soon,” she shrugs. “I mean, he can’t stay away forever.”

Luke’s lightsaber is a heavy, hot weight in his jacket pocket, but he laughs and says, “I mean, if _I_ had to teach you guys, I’d probably run away to some deserted island and never come back, but that’s just me.” He stretches idly. “Listen, let’s catch up later, all right? I’ll be around for a little while, but I’m betting you’ve got classes—“

“Yes, laser-brain, I do,” she laughs. “To _teach_.”

“They’re letting _you_ teach?” Poe asks, delighted for her even as he’s itching to go find Lor San Tekka. “That’s terrifying.”

“Necessity and invention and all of that,” Dagna says. “We’ve got over two hundred students now; at some point we’re going to have to tell Luke to give _someone_ a Master’s title, but to be honest, none of us are in a hurry. We’ve got our whole lives to be all-powerful Jedi masters, right?”

“The idea that any of you might be all-powerful in any way is enough to make me believe in the Dark Side,” Poe says, and she jabs him in the ribs. “So who’s been selected for the honor?”

“It’s me, Uxon’l, Jaany and Yaaan together, obviously, Pivel, and because the Force is a cruel mistress, _Ben_ , if you can believe it.”

“I’m not sure which one I should be more horrified about,” Poe admits.

“Definitely Ben,” she tells him. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll call you up later and we can get the whole gang together, okay?”

Poe watches her scurry off to one of the classroom buildings, then wanders toward the faculty hall, keeping his pace slow. He smiles and shakes hands with a half-dozen students, most of whom he remembers only vaguely, and all the while he’s fighting the urge to sprint up the walkway, up the stairs and through the hallways until he finds Lor San.

He knocks on the door and sends a little prayer up to one of abuelo’s old goddesses, which seems to work, because Lor San says, “Come in.” Poe slips inside, shutting the door carefully behind him.

“My word, is that really Poe Dameron?” Lor San exclaims, climbing to his feet and coming around the desk to embrace him. “Look at you — such a young man! I can hardly believe it.”

Poe takes a seat on one of Lor San’s dusty old armchairs, grown only older and dustier since he’s last been here. The three original teachers of Luke’s Academy were a study in contrasts: Snoke had been a taskmaster and ruthless perfectionist, everyone’s favorite one to hate, except for a handful of students who insisted he wasn’t that bad (and who probably really regretted that insistence now), while Luke had been the universally beloved but incredibly slap-dash professor who more often than not told his students to search their feelings when they asked him when an assignment was due. Lor San was — had been — the glue that held them together, not so demanding as Snoke but not nearly the pushover that Luke turned out to be. Poe had often thought that if Luke had any real sense, he’d leave the running of the Academy to Lor San.

Judging by the bags under Lor San’s eyes, running the Academy was exactly what he was doing. “I’m sorry for the mess,” he says, absently gesturing to the piles that crowd every available surface. “It’s been a bit discombobulated lately, I’m afraid.”

“Of course,” Poe says. “I hear Luke’s run off again.”

Lor San sighs heavily. “Yes, and I have to say, Poe, that while I respect what the Resistance is trying to do, I really don’t think much of all this dashing about on secret missions or whatnot.”

Poe doesn’t freeze or stare at him or demand to know what he’s talking about; instead he looks rueful and apologetic. “And the general appreciates your forbearance, sir. I know it must have been bad timing.” He thinks back to the general, if he’d missed something. But she’d told him _say hi for me_. She was expecting Luke to be here, safe.

“Bad timing?” Lor San says, almost offended. “Last month I come to my office and there’s a note from Luke saying, ‘So sorry, the Resistance has asked me on a top secret mission, will be in touch!’ I mean, really. And there are the new students coming in next week, you know, and Ben _still_ keeps asking about when he will take his final steps, even though it’s hardly up to me, is it? I’m not even a Jedi, but now that Luke’s gone _I’m_ the authority!”

“I think you’re doing a remarkable job,” Poe tells him. “Did he really leave you a note? He told the general he’d arranged everything beforehand.”

“See for yourself,” he says, pulling open a drawer. The paper’s been folded and unfolded dozens of times, the Yavinian paper too fragile for how often poor Lor San must have checked to see that yes, Luke really was that much of a dick.

_Lor San—_

_My apologies for the notice, but I must depart. The Resistance requires my help. I shall be back shortly; please keep this information to yourself, as I do not wish to compromise anyone’s life._

_—LS_

Poe folds it back up, puts it back on the desk on a stack of Lor San’s papers. “Well, that wasn’t very nice of him, was it?” he says, and turns the conversation over to new classes Lor San is teaching, the progress his students are making. After another ten minutes and a promise to write to him now that he’s no longer a wanted man, Poe stands up and shakes his hand. “Oh, you mind if I keep this?” he says, touching the letter. “I’d love to show it to the general; she’ll be busy kicking Luke’s ass for the next year and a half.”

“So long as she lets him come back before then,” Lor San chuckles, gesturing for him to keep it. “I’ll admit, Poe, I’m glad you came by. I was beginning to worry a bit, and to be honest I wouldn’t have the first notion how to even _contact_ Princess Leia.”

It’s on the tip of Poe’s tongue to correct him, because the general has a tendency to put anyone who calls her princess on tuber scrubbing duty for a week. Then he remembers: Lor San is Alderaanian, one of the handful of survivors of the planet’s destruction and a staunch monarchist to this day. “I’ll let her know that her brother’s a no-good ingrate, sir, but between you and me? I think she already knows.”

Poe’s hopeful of making a clean getaway, so of course the minute he comes out of the building he runs into Ben Solo.

“Dameron,” he sneers, squinting down at him like he can’t see him clearly. To be fair, the kid is about the size of a Wookie these days. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“That’s the great thing about being part of a terrorist group, Ben,” he says, slapping him on the shoulder. Ben sways slightly. “We’re not really supposed to be anywhere. I’ll tell your mom you’re doing… whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Why are you here?” Ben demands, searching his face. Ben’s always had a knack for plucking things out of thin air, looking at you and telling you your own life story. Poe’s never quite forgiven him for being thirteen years old and shrieking that _everybody_ knew he was in love with Uncle Luke and he was _disgusting_ he would _never_ be good enough for a Skywalker.

Rather than risk _that_ , Poe turns and clatters down the steps, throwing a wave over his shoulder. “Have fun scaring your new students!” he says. “Don’t crush any of them with rocks!”

He’s up over the wall and down to the airfield less than two hours after he landed, heading back to D’Qar, BB-8 worried and quiet beside him.

“Are you kidding me?” the general demands when she sees Poe come rushing into the command center. “I bet you thought I wasn’t going to write you up, but guess what—“

“General, something’s wrong,” he says, and the whole command center stops talking at the notion that someone (who wasn’t Han) had just interrupted the general. “Luke’s missing.”

He lays out what he’s seen — the kitchen, the overflowing raincatcher. The general’s eyebrows lift at the mention of the lightsaber. “Show me,” she commands.

He fumbles it out of his jacket pocket and hands it over. It looks enormous in her small hands, too heavy to lift easily. But she holds it with ease that speaks of practice, turns it on with a grating hum and looks thoughtfully at the green glow.

“Luke said once that he has — or he had — two of them,” Poe says, “So I’m not sure if this is his first or—“

“It’s his second,” she answers, turning the lightsaber carefully, examining it. “The first belonged to our father. When Darth Vader cut off Luke’s hand, it was lost. Part of me hoped he wouldn’t make another one, but Luke has always been…” she shut it off. “What else?”

“He left this note for Lor San Tekka,” Poe says, handing it over. “I don’t know, sir, it reads weird to me.”

The general huffs. “Luke’s never been what I’d call gifted with the written word,” she mutters as she unfolds the note, “But…” She trails off, reading the note, flipping over the paper, then reading it again. “Admiral,” she calls, and Ackbar trundles over, “Look at this for me.”

The entire command center is quiet, everyone watching. At last Ackbar says, “Yes, I think so. Everyone,” he adds, pitching his voice to rise above the deafening silence, “Luke Skywalker has been taken by the First Order.”

The entire room erupts into action.

Poe’s usual place is up in the sky or in the back of a dive bar, but he’s not such an idiot as to think he does all the real work while the console jockeys at the base lie around eating muja doughnuts. Still, the speed at which things start happening is startling; within an hour, they’ve compiled a list of every ship that’s passed within two thousand light years of the Gordian System in the last month. They take that as their base and start building scenarios, extrapolating from there into thousands, then millions, then billions of possible locations. Poe holes himself up in a corner and stays out of the way; after a while the general wanders by, leans against the wall next to him.

“Sir, can I ask?” he says, as C3PO starts arguing with R2-D2 about some calculations.

The general slants him a look. “About what?”

“How did you know? What did I miss about the note — you and Ackbar spotted it right away.”

“You’re in a real hurry to make yourself look dumb, Dameron,” she says, sounding fond. “You didn’t miss anything; Luke used an old Rebel cypher. Very badly, I might add, but he was probably under some pressure. I’d love to know how they convinced him to leave a note at all.”

“They must have threatened someone — threatened the Academy, maybe?”

“Maybe,” says the general, “Which is why I just sent a very politely worded message to the Senate telling them to secure every student or else get out of my way while _I_ did it.” She looks up at him, as though it’s just occurring to her. “Did you see Ben?”

“Yes, sir,” Poe says. “He seemed… fine.”

The general rolls her eyes. “One day the two of you will stop trying to kill each other,” she says, although it sounds more like a prayer than a statement of confidence. “But everyone you saw — there was no mention of anyone missing?”

“No, sir. But whoever took Luke could have taken the entire Academy, too — it would’ve been easier, to be honest.”

“That’s what has me worried,” says the general, and lapses into silence.

The number keeps growing, until C3PO says, “General, we have now successfully theorized 71,368,161,380,167,935,307 possible locations for Master Luke.”

Poe can feel all the blood go out of his face. The general must notice, because she nudges him in the shoulder “Relax,” she tells him. Poe sees she’s got the lightsaber clipped to her belt; it looks unspeakably strange there. “That was is the boring part. Now we’ll start having _real_ fun.”

She’s got a horrible idea of what “fun” constitutes. The possibilities get whittled down, the visugraph at the center of the room shrinking and resizing, constantly moving like some kind of living creature. Second shift comes on and number drops from the trillions into the billions, then into the hundred millions. By the time First shift comes back, they’re down to less than three million.

Sometime around noon the next day, Han and Chewbacca come bursting into the command center, looking as out of context as they ever do. “What the hell happened?” he yells, mostly at the general but the whole room turns to look at him anyway, because Han Solo never met a crisis he couldn’t make more dramatic.

The general grabs her husband and his first mate and hauls them out the door, leaving Ackbar in charge; when they come back a few hours later, the number is stuck in the hundreds of thousands, going down by tens and far too slowly. The room is still quieter than he’s ever heard it, everyone bent over their consoles or murmuring conferences with each other, and even as Poe wills those numbers to move faster he can’t help be humbled by the thought of all these people working to save Luke. It’s easy for him to forget, he knows, that Luke’s context is wider than his own life; that most people here have been handed a pamphlet from an earnest evangelist of the Order of the New Faith and that many of them have met him personally and that all of them, to a man, knows what he means to the Resistance — to the galaxy.

“Kid,” barks Han from about six inches away from him; Poe yelps and nearly falls off the console he’s been leaning against. Han grabs his arm to steady him, but he looks pissed about having to show that kind of concern. “You know that sitting here isn’t actually helping anything, right?”

“Well, technically I’m on leave,” Poe points out, because he is and because one day Han Solo will die and someone will need to take over the position of Mouthiest Punk in the Resistance.

“You sure look like your head’s on another planet,” says Han. “Get out of here. I don’t care if you get some sleep, although it’d probably be a good idea, but you need a shower. You smell like the inside of a tauntaun, and believe me, I know—“

“—Know what you’re talking about,” Poe finishes for him. “You realize you’ve been making that joke since I was eight years old, right?”

Han smacks him upside the head. “How come nobody on this base ever calls me sir?” he complains. “I’m a general too, you know.”

“I think most people consider that more of an honorific,” Poe says, getting out of range of another head slap.

Han points a finger at him. “Leave. Now.”

The sunlight is blinding when he gets up to the surface.; he stumbles on thin air and two pairs of arms catch him. “Typical,” Kala snorts, hauling him upright. “You look, and I mean this sincerely, incredibly gross.”

Poe tries to laugh, but his throat is dry and cracked and his feet are killing him and there’s an itch behind his eyes that he can’t blink away. “Hi.”

“If this is what leave does to you after two days, I’m glad I never took any,” says Kala. “Come on, you need ablution and a nap. And a toothbrush, good currents of the dark waters, Dameron, when’s the last time you _brushed_?”

Poe is bullied out of his clothes and into the shower, then bullied out of the shower and into clean sweatpants, then bullied into eating a bowl of shyli soup, then bullied into bed. “You’re going to be such a good mom one day,” he mutters as Kala tucks the blankets around him until he’s cocooned and immobile. It’s how children on her planet are tucked into bed every night; no matter how many times he tells her that humans don’t sleep like that, she never listens.

“If kids are anywhere as much trouble as you, I’m eating them immediately after they hatch,” she says, and Poe drifts off dreaming of Luke, turning to smile at him and taking off his face to reveal Snoke beneath; dreaming of a tree, blue-green and shimmering, catching hold and trapping him until he has to cut off his own arm and fall, screaming, into the darkness.

He wakes up fourteen hours later, sweating and vaguely nauseated. He’s managed to partially de-cocoon himself, one foot sticking out over the edge of the bed and his pillow on the floor, and he tries to unwind the rest of the way without falling out of bed. The _thump_ summons Kala, who pops her gum at him from the doorway. “You are a one-being disaster zone, Dameron, you know that?”

“Shut up,” Poe says from the floor, “And help me out of this.”

He gets dressed and heads right back to the command system, despite all the defamatory things Kala says about his attempts at playing the war widow. There’s still the same quiet buzz of activity, but the visugraph looks vastly different; more angular and spiky, with vectors veering off in different directions. He hopes that’s a good sign.

It is. The general, looking washed and rested herself, spots him and waves him over. “We’ve got four or five dozen possibilities now,” she tells him, staring up at the projection.

“That’s—“ he wants to say _still too many_ , but he also wants to keep both his ears attached to his head. “That’s great.”

She slants him a look. “It’s not great enough,” she says. “We might be able to knock off another dozen, but the rest we’ll have to do by hand, so to speak. Take a look, tell me what you think.”

Poe resists the urge to look behind him and make sure she’s not talking to anybody else. “Me, sir?”

“For reasons neither of us are ever, ever going to discuss,” she tells him, “You probably know my brother better than anyone in the galaxy, apart from me. I need fresh eyes on this, Dameron. Don’t let me down.”

“That’s one hell of an order, sir,” Poe mutters, but he straightens his shoulders and looks closer at the visugraph. “Take out anything smaller than a destroyer,” he says, brushing away fifteen or sixteen possibilities. “I’ve seen him move asteroids the size of this base, if he was on something he could crash into the nearest moon he would’ve done it already.”

“Good,” murmurs the general, coming up to stand next to him.

“He’s not on a ship or a base that dates from the Empire,” he decides next. “Otherwise he would’ve found a way to escape by now. He was good about studying those schematics back then but I seriously doubt he’s ever looked at the cross-section of a First Order carrier.”

“He hasn’t,” the general sighs. Another seven gone.

“Nowhere that’s got a heavy concentration of Stormtroopers.” The First Order’s conditioning guarantees troops who are wide open to suggestion and bad at thinking for themselves; Luke would just have to ask them to open the door and take him home.

“Not bad, Dameron,” says the general.

They’re looking at fourteen possibilities now; as they watch another one is crossed off by the computer system. “It’s still too many, sir,” Poe says. “If we want to get to him in time, we’re not going to be able to infiltrate a dozen different places and check the prison manifests or the cargo holds or wherever it is they’ve stashed him on each one.”

“We won’t need to,” the general says, then calls out to the command center, “Good work everyone. Keep at it; I want that list down to six in the next twelve hours.” And she heads out toward her office, the lightsaber banging at her hip.

Poe follows her. “Sir, I would respectfully suggest that you not do what you’re thinking of doing.”

“That reminds me, I still need to write you up,” she says, palming open her office door. Han and Chewbacca are inside, methodically cleaning a staggering array of weaponry. Chewbacca doesn’t even glance up; Han does, although he scowls about it.

“It’s not a good idea for the general of the entire Resistance to try and stage a rescue operation,” Poe continues, trying to ignore the way he’s destroying his own career with this stunt.

“The day I listen to Poe Dameron about what constitutes a good idea is the day they light my funeral pyre,” she tells him, taking a blaster out of Chewbacca’s hands and examining it. “I know he’s alive, and I’m not sitting on my ass waiting for someone else to rescue him.” She smiles at some private memory. “I still owe him one.”

“And that’s great, sir — but there’s no way to tell what kind of shape he’s in. What’s being done to him.”

She blanches. “How much did it cost you to say _that_?” she asks, holstering the blaster.

“You ought to consider the idea that Luke isn’t the prize they’re after,” Poe says. “It’s possible that he’s just the bait; they know you’d do anything to get him back.”

“So this is all part of a plot to kill me?” The tone of her voice indicates she’s less than convinced. “Ben probably would’ve been an easier target. And wouldn’t they have sent us some kind of message by now to let us know?”

Poe suppresses his instinctual revulsion at the idea that anyone would actually want Ben back. “I don’t think they wanted anybody to know, sir,” he says. “Not right away. Whatever else Luke is, he’s still a valuable source of information. By the time we realized he was missing, they would’ve gotten all the information they wanted out of him. _Then_ they could use him as a lure. I’m betting we’ll get some kind of message in a week, telling us where he is.”

The general looks baffled. “Why a week?”

Han pipes up, which is good, because Poe doesn’t really want to say this part. “Eight weeks, Leia. SOP for the First Order’s conditioning program.”

“You think they’re trying to _brainwash_ Luke Skywalker?” She doesn’t sound outraged so much as amused.

“Snoke must have told them that Luke was more useful to them alive, sir,” Poe says. “If he’s survived this long, it’s because they don’t want to kill him. But the First Order doesn’t use anything or anybody until they’re ‘brought in line,’ and that means that whatever we find, we’ve got to consider the possibility that it’s not Luke anymore.”

Which is what he’s been refusing to think about for the past day and a half. Poe has interrogated dozens of Stormtroopers post-capture; they ran the gamut in personality, in intelligence, but every one of them had a loyalty to the First Order that was hard-wired, scored into their brains and written on their souls. That kind of unthinking obedience didn’t come from belief in a cause; and Poe has seen the recordings of what a conditioning session looks like.

“Then we’ll bring whatever is left back and we’ll fix him when we get here,” the general says. She sees his expression and her eyes soften. “I know what you’re afraid of, Poe. And you’re right — it _is_ stupid for me to go out there personally. But I’m the best chance we’ve got at getting him back — I might not be able to sense him from outside a star system, but I’m the only one who can sense him at all. If I get close enough—”

“Yeah, sir, but the problem is while you can sense him, he can sense you — and he can do it from a lot further away.” Poe’s talking too fast, he knows, but she’s not listening to him. “And you’re wrong. I can sense him, too.”

That makes everybody pause. Chewbacca looks over at Han, who makes a helpless gesture. The general frowns. “What?”

“I can — I’ve always been able to tell, sir. When Luke’s around. Or when anybody who’s Force-sensitive, but with Luke it’s…” he remembers trying to explain this phenomenon to Luke, and decides discretion is the better part of not being mocked by your superior officer for the rest of your life. “It’s more powerful.”

“What, you just get a special feeling, kid?” Han snorts, and tosses the general another blaster.

She catches it. “I know what Luke means to you—“

“Seven years ago, when everybody at base on Yavin Four was coming down with that fever, do you remember that? They said Luke got it too, was staying in his quarters to avoid spreading infection. Only he wasn’t even on base. He was gone for three days — I’m guessing on some kind of mission for you.”

The general doesn’t say anything.

“A couple years ago he came aboard the _Avenger_ to help out with a mission against the Dawn Army. It wasn’t announced beforehand, none of us knew he was coming, but I felt him the minute he came aboard. Lieutenant Kala and Major Wexley were there when it happened, you can ask them. I’m not making this up, sir, and I’m not trying to get in on a mission that’s over my head. I can help; I can get him out.”

The general is still watching him. She used to do this at the Institute, too, on the rare occasions when she left the base proper and came to visit the campus, usually for one-off lectures or parade inspection. She’d ask you a question and you’d give her an answer and she’d watch you, turning you over in her mind, holding you up to the light to see what you’re made of.

At last she sighs. “Don’t make me bust you down to corporal for this stunt.”

“Leia,” Han says warningly.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Well, you’re _gonna_.” Chewbacca elbows Han hard in the ribs. “Ow! If this gets screwed up just because Dameron can’t keep it in his pants—“

“I’m going to do you a big favor and _not_ remind you of how _we_ met,” the general says, which shuts Han up pretty fast. She nods, and smiles up at Poe. “All right,” she says. “Let’s go rescue my baby brother.”

Poe frowns. “You do know that whenever anybody brings you up, he says that he’s the oldest, right?”

The general shrugs on a leather jacket and heads for the door. “Dameron, when you get to be my age, you realize that everything is relative.”

Poe isn’t sure what he expected, going on a mission with General Organa, General Solo, and Commander Chewbacca — three of the most brilliant strategists of the Rebellion, three of the most famous military figures in the past quarter-century — but what he gets is two days of bickering.

First it’s Han, who complains more or less non-stop about having to ride in anything that isn’t the Millennium Falcon. After a few hours Chewbacca starts complaining about Han’s complaining, which leads inevitably to the general periodically yelling at them to shut up, and the whole cycle starts again only this time with Han complaining about his own wife and the mother of his child _yelling_ at him. Poe sits in the back of the shuttle and fantasizes about murdering all of them and blaming it on the First Order.

The intelligence division has narrowed it down to five possible locations, and they’re able to knock two off the list without even being seen. The third one is a little more trouble.

“Nice going, General,” the general hisses. They’re at the bottom of a lake, the lights off and engines shut down; the only sound is the muffled shriek of the TIE fighters overhead, looking for them.

“Shut up, General,” Han snaps back.

It seems like the fourth one is going to be a no-go too; a large island in the middle of an oceanic planet with no satellites and only a few atmocraft catalogued on the last recon flight. But the general clutches at Han’s shoulder as she stares down at the planet through the viewfinder. “There he is,” she says, and glances at Poe. “Can you feel it?”

He shakes his head, sick to his stomach. “Not from this distance, sir. But you seem like the reliable type.”

“Quit flirting with _my wife_ , will ya?” Han grumbles as they scan for sensor relays or other devices. “Or at least do it some other time, like when we’re not trying to rescue _your boyfriend_.”

Arguing that point with Han is probably going to break Poe’s spirit, so instead he asks what the plan is.

“We don’t know much about this outpost,” the general says, reading over the pad in her hand. “Minimal technology but a lot of life forms on the scanners; we’ve never intercepted any chatter between this base and any of the destroyers that pass through the area, and other than a few supply ships, nothing bigger than troop carrier has ever been seen making entry.”

“So an outpost where no one can escape,” Poe says.

“Sounds like a prison to me,” Han says, cheerful. “I can’t wait to see how the First Order decorates their cells.”

“Let’s recon _before_ we decide what it is,” the general snaps. Poe and Chewbacca share a look of shared oppression as they search for a place to land.

They fail to find one. The entire island is open and flat; there are plenty of trees, but spaced so that hiding the shuttle under one of them would be like hiding a rancor under a drink umbrella. Han and the general argue for a good half-hour about what to do next; Poe slides into the co-pilot seat as they argue in the back.

“What are the chances of us dying of old age before they agree on something?” he asks Chewbacca, seriously.

In response, Chewbacca sets course for the surface, bringing them in on a smooth trajectory toward the southern tip of the island. A few miles before they’d show up on scanners, he slides them under the water, the jostling of the waves bringing the general and Han back into the cockpit with a demand for answers. Poe lifts his hands in innocence; Chewbacca just growls.

“Didn’t we _just do this_?” Han says, yanking Poe out of his seat and reading the controls.

Wookie language is comprised largely of swearing, which is one reason Poe learned it as an elective back at the Institute. He’s rusty now, but Chewbacca’s response seems to be along the lines of, “Seriously, Solo, fuck you right up your left nostril.”

They skim across the bottom of the ocean bed, steadily rising up again as they approach the island. There are no sensor nets, no mines to dodge; whatever protects this island, it isn’t the First Order’s usual tricks. When they’re about a mile out, Poe feels a wash of warmth flood over him, as shocking as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. “He’s here,” he says.

Han spares a glance away from the viewscreen to glare at him. “Yeah. We know.”

“Can you tell where?” the general asks, leaning forward in her seat, propping her elbows on her knees.

“And _don’t_ say ‘somewhere ahead of us,’” Han warns.

Poe closes his eyes and tries to focus, remembers the blast helmet and Luke’s delight at his experiment, his trainees moving around him in ever-spiraling circles while Luke’s presence burned in the distance. Luke _does_ feel like he’s somewhere straight ahead of them, which is frustrating and vague until he opens his eyes and remembers they’re still under the ocean, the underwater mountain in front of them.

“He’s below the surface,” he says. “To the east.”

“Well done,” the general says, sounding surprised.

Poe has to smile at that. “You didn’t believe me, did you?”

“Not even a little bit, no,” she says, not sounding embarrassed in the slightest.

Chewbacca maneuvers the shuttle right up to the surface; there are still no sensors or even guards that they can see, which makes every alarm go off in Poe’s head, but he and the general and Han disembark into the knee-high waves, Han grumbling about wet feet and the general grumbling about him. Poe thinks longingly of staying behind with Chewbacca, but before he can desert his post the shuttle door closes and the shuttle disappears back under the waves. Chewbacca is clearly the smartest person in this rescue operation.

They make it to the deserted beach without incident, and Poe climbs the ridge to establish a lookout — while there’s not enough cover for a shuttle, there are a few scrub bushes that allow for surveillance. All three of them hunker down in the tall grass and try to get their bearings.

About five hundred feet in front of them, the grass and trees and bushes end; beyond that is a vast stretch of concrete and a single low, squat building. Now they see guards, Stormtroopers patrolling the perimeter of the concrete, blasters in hand.

“It doesn’t look that secure,” Han says, “Which means it’s probably guarded better than King Prana’s diamonds. We need to get inside.”

As if on cue, the big double doors to the largest building open and a phalanx of Stormtroopers comes out, marching in lockstep, the ground beneath them shaking with it. They wheel around in formation — drills, Poe realizes. Somehow it’s strange to think of them as having to practice.

“Why wasn’t this place crossed off the list?” the general asks, peering through her binoculars. “Not that I’m complaining, but those look like a whole lot of Stormtroopers to me.”

Except they don’t, quite. There’s something hesitant about the way they move, clumsy and too-quick. Then one of them turns too quickly in formation and knocks off the helmet of his neighboring stormtrooper, who starts to cry earnest tears as he falls onto his hands and knees.

“They’re kids,” Poe realizes, his stomach lurching.

“ _What_?” Han says, in a harsh whisper. “You’re telling me this is some kind of — primary school? Then what the hell is Luke doing here?”

But the general is a lot faster on the uptake, and her face drains of color. “You can’t be serious,” she says to Poe.

“I hope I’m wrong, sir.”

Han waves his hands in front of their faces for their attention. “What. Are. You. Talking. About,” he says, enunciating every word and looking progressively angrier with each one.

“It’s a primary school,” says the general. “ _And_ a prison.”

Han blinks at them, then looks back up at where someone — taller, maybe an adult — scoops up the crying kid and forces its helmet back on its head, shoving it back into formation. “Bullshit,” he says in passable Wookie. “There’s no way the First Order is going to make a bunch of _infants_ guard Luke Skywalker.”

“The First Order isn’t… sentimental about kids,” Poe explains. “They’re considered investments, not children. The First Order gives you food and shelter and a purpose, but they expect you to repay them for everything they gave you when you were just a drain on resources. Their words,” Poe adds, because Han looks appalled. “It’s one of the only things First Order prisoners will actually talk about, and they’re _proud_ of it. They think it makes them better soldiers.”

“But they know exactly how most people in the New Republic — most sentients in the galaxy — feel about children,” the general picks up, tucking her binoculars into her utility belt. “We’ve had to scrap a half-dozen missions over the years because the First Order gets wind of what we’re planning and brings in a bunch of those child soldiers over there,” she jerks her chin at them, “To act as a meat shield. They know we won’t hurt kids; they see it as a weakness. I really shouldn’t be surprised by this, should I?”

“It probably says something good about you that you are, sir,” Poe points out.

Han rolls his eyes. “Quit brown-nosing, kid, she already likes you.”

“So we need to get in there without being seen, find Luke without being caught, and get him out without killing anyone,” says Poe as the general carefully pinches her husband in the side. “And that door’s the only way in.”

“Well,” muses the general, “Not the _only_ way.” She smiles cheerfully at Han and Poe. “I don’t care how evolved the First Order thinks it is — any group of humans has got to get rid of their garbage somehow.”

“What is it with Skywalkers and trash?” Poe asks before his brain catches up to who he’s talking to.

But Han just sighs. “I wish I knew, kid.”

Chewbacca, when they tell them the plan, just looks at the three of them in long, judgmental silence. But he turns around in the pilot seat and takes the shuttle back down underwater, and they spend a really enjoyable two hours looking for the sewer lines. Poe, because he’s the moron who insisted on accompanying them, gets ordered into one of the Stormtrooper uniforms they’d brought with them, back when they’d thought this would be a straightforward infiltration. The general takes pity on him and lets him put one of the emergency spacesuits over the top, which (due to the variety of beings in need of an emergency space suit) is just a big plastic sphere with adjustable straps.

“The suit’s tank should give you enough air to get up there,” the general says, making no effort whatsoever to hide how pleased she is about all of this, “But it can only do so much about the smell.”

“Don’t worry, kid,” Han says. “We’ll probably let you back in.”

“Glad you brought me along now, sir?” he asks, putting on the helmet.

“Immensely, Major.” She hands him a blaster rifle. “Compliments of the First Order.”

“Bless their hearts, sir,” Poe says, and slings it over his shoulder.

“And this,” she says, unclipping the lightsaber and putting it carefully in his hand, as though it were made of spun glass, “Isn’t for you.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, and wedges it carefully in his boot.

The less said about the trip up the pipe, the better. He can’t smell anything, but it really doesn’t matter. For the first half hour he has to swim through an unspeakable combination of ocean water and raw sewage, something that will take him and Luke about thirty seconds to go through going the other way. It’s a relief when the liquid level (he won’t say water level) goes down far enough for him to walk through hip-high filth.

At a certain point the pipe begins to branch; Poe checks each tunnel, seeing which, if any, lead out into a chute he can climb through. It takes hours, his breathing in the mask the only thing he can hear, the nightsighters giving him all the vision he could ever desperately not want.

He’s almost blinded by a light up ahead, bobbing up and down; someone else is down here. Poe’s all set to run when the light swings around, and catches him. “Hi!” says the holder of the light; the voice is gender-indeterminate human, no older than fourteen. Poe squints against the light and looks for a weapon, instinctive but still disgusted with himself for it.

“Hi,” he says, carefully. Up close, he can see the kid’s got on a waterproof bodysuit instead of armor, a clear helmet that shows a pale-faced boy with freckles across his nose and ash-brown hair.

“Did you get lost?” the boy asks, sounding exasperated. “I _told_ you guys you should just let us patrol down here. We can do it ourselves.”

“We all have to obey orders,” Poe says, because that sounds like something a First Order soldier would say.

“Yeah, I guess,” the kid grumbles, and sloshes his way back up the tunnel. “Come on.”

“Slip?” someone calls from further ahead. “Who’re you talking to?” Another boy in a wetsuit — dark hair and skin, with a deep scar on his cheek — comes sloshing from around the corner.

“One of the guards got _lost_ down here again,” says the first kid, who apparently has the worst name in history. “You’d think they’d bring torches or maps or something.”

“Oh, crap. Uh, sorry sir,” says the other kid, looking from Slip to him and back again.

Poe has no idea what he’s apologizing for. “Just don’t let it happen again, or I’ll have to report both of you,” he says, and the two kids visibly relax. Clearly if you just sound like a hardass and threaten everybody with write-ups, you blend in perfectly. “Get me out of here, I have to check in.”

“Yessir,” they say in very creepy unison, and go ahead of him toward an open grate high on the wall.

Once they’re up, the kids skin out of their wetsuits without any apparent modesty — maybe that’s a First Order thing, but Poe turns around because he can only handle so much weirdness today. He manages to get the emergency space suit off with a minimum of swearing; when he gets clear of the plastic, hitting the button that reduces it to a small, foul-smelling package, he finds the two boys now back in recognizable if extremely badly-fitting battle uniforms, complete with anonymizing helmets. They’re staring at his spacesuit. He thinks. “What?”

“That’s so cool!” exclaims one of them — he’s pretty sure it’s Slip, if the way the other one kicks him in the shins is anything to go by. “Oh. Sorry, sir.”

“It’s the latest thing,” Poe says, before he realizes that the First Order probably doesn’t trade heavily in sarcasm. He wants to thank these kids, looking up at him expectantly, but he knows that’s the wrong move. So he tries to sound irritated and dismissive when he asks, “Where are we?”

“You’re on Junior Level Four, sir,” says the other kid, straightening up, proud that he can give information.

Information that doesn’t remotely help him. “Well, since you’re so smart,” he sneers, even though every part of him wants to pat them on the head and tell them they’re doing a great job, “You can tell me the fastest route from here down to the lowest level.” It’s a hell of a gamble, but he can feel Luke somewhere below; and if you have Luke Skywalker in custody, chances are you’re going to try to put as much sheer rock between him and escape as possible.

“Yessir!” they say again. It’s unnerving, but they make up for it with a running commentary on how their studies are going, what their fastest blaster assembly times are, and how their two other friends (they don’t call them friends, but that’s what they are) are going to be _so jealous_ that they got to escort one of the _real_ guards. “We were just doing our routine inspection today,” says Slip, half-skipping in excitement. “Everybody’s schedule changed because of the Supreme Leader, but now he’s left again and it’s just you guys. Why’d you stick around, anyway?”

“ _Slip_ ,” says the other kid, warning, as they get into a lift.

“ _Zeroes_ ,” replies Slip in the same tone, and Poe really doesn’t understand the naming practices of the First Order. Then again, one of his best pilots is named Snap, so maybe it’s all situational.

He can’t think of that now, though, because he can feel Luke, closer now. “What do you know about what’s down here?” he asks, trying to channel his political history professor, who liked to pause at regular intervals and interrogate some poor half-asleep student sitting in the back row, make sure they’d been paying attention.

These kids are much better students than he’d been, though; Slip pipes up immediately. “The Supreme Leader installed guards on the third floor. The second floor is empty and the first floor contains the asset.”

No guesses as to what the asset is. The lift doors open onto a small room with a comms desk and a long corridor extending past; two guards stand at the mouth of the corridor, holding blasters. Judging by their height, they’re maybe ten or eleven.

Poe turns back to Zeroes and Slip, who are still on the lift but peering out, as though this is thrill enough for them for the next six months. “Well done,” he says. “I’ll be sure to notify your superiors.”

“Do you want our designations?” asks Slip. “I’m FN-2003 and he’s FN-2000. We’re going up for final conditioning in a couple months.”

Fifteen years old is final conditioning; after this they’ll be on a destroyer, getting basic training in combat tactics and colonization procedures. “You’ll be a credit to the Order,” he forces out, and shuts the lift doors.

That leaves the guards, who are either staring at him or staring straight ahead — the helmets don’t give much away. Poe ignores them and makes straight for a door to the right, with nothing more complicated than a lock and a handle. As he suspected, it’s the supply closet; he tips something off a high shelf and sends it crashing to the ground.

The First Order instills an unthinking, unflinching loyalty into its troops, even as children; Poe has seen young boys and girls step in front of blaster shots meant for a senior officer or a valuable target, a kind of loyalty that would be horrifying even if it were earned. Every bit of training, every conditioning program, is meant to drum out all childlike instincts and behaviors as effectively as possible.

But it can’t drum out everything.

Both kids come running, calling “what happened?” as they round the corner. Poe is able to shove them through and send them sprawling onto the floor, grabbing their weapons before they’ve got a chance to recover. He shuts the door and locks it, apologizing under his breath. A few seconds later, there’s a slam against it as one of them tries the impressive but supremely useless tactic of battering it down with sheer rage and a tiny armor-clad boot.

Luke is way down at the far end; every door Poe passes is open, the cells empty. There’s a very complicated keypad on Luke’s door which Poe bypasses by dint of pounding at it with the butt of his blaster until it shorts out and the door opens. The cell isn’t a whole lot worse than Luke’s quarters back at the Academy; there’s even a sink and a toilet, and a bed that frankly looks more comfortable. Luke is lying on it, his eyes closed, but Poe isn’t fooled for a minute.

“Comfortable?” he asks, pulling off his helmet.

Luke cracks open an eye. “You have no idea how much I wish my sister had been the one coming through that door,” he says, because of course Luke wouldn’t say anything like _thank goodness you’ve come for me_ or _Poe, I can’t believe it’s you._ But he’s smiling as he adds, “There’s a joke I’ve been dying to make for twenty-five years.”

“Sorry,” Poe says, putting his helmet on the desk. “You got the B-team.”

“So I see.” He sits up slowly, taking careful breaths; when he looks up he seems startled that Poe is still standing there. “Come here.”

“We have to get you out,” Poe says, but he does as he’s told, goes down on one knee in front of him.

“In a minute,” Luke agrees, and rests his forehead against Poe’s. “Just a minute.” His left hand — warm — comes up to touch Poe’s face, run along the stubble of his hair. “When did _this_ happen?”

Poe grins. “People kept yanking on it.”

“What people?” Luke demands.

Poe wants to crawl on top of him and promise that nobody will touch him again. It’s dizzying, intoxicating to be this close; he can’t believe he’s made himself stay away for so long.

But they’ve pushed their luck past the breaking point as it is. “Can you get up?” he asks.

“Let’s find out,” he says, and drags himself to his feet. Poe stands next to him as he sways. “I can’t say it feels very good.”

“Well, you _look_ great,” Poe observes. He looks horrible; gaunt and too-thin, bruises on his cheek and injuries Poe can’t see under the raggedy clothes but can tell are making every move painful. Luke’s right hand grips Poe’s shoulder for balance and he hears the scrape of metal against the armor; the hand’s inner workings are exposed, shining in the light. “What did they do to you?”

“Nothing pleasant,” Luke says. He lifts his right hand off of Poe’s shoulder and holds it up, flexing it. “They were… amused by my hand; they took off the exoskin to see how it works.”

“I thought you had nerve relays in there,” Poe says, grabbing his helmet.

“I did,” Luke says; as Poe moves away from him he staggers, grabs at the chair and leans heavily against it. “Poe, listen to me. I can’t leave.”

Poe is checking the corridor, but that gets his attention. “Okay,” he says, trying to sound calm and reasonable and not like the total basket-case he’s going to start being if it turns out Luke’s gotten brainwashed. “What makes you think that?”

“I haven’t been through the conditioning program, if that’s what you’re looking so stricken about,” Luke says, disapproving.

“Then why don’t you think you can leave?”

Luke gives him a familiar look of irritation and fondness that punches him right in the gut, he’s missed it so much. Two years he’s been out in the cold. “I don’t _think_ I can’t leave.” He pulls out the chair and eases himself down onto it. “There’s a reason it was easy to find me.”

“It wasn’t _that_ easy,” Poe says, because someone’s got to stick up for the several thousand man hours they just put into finding his ungrateful ass.

“I knew you’d figure it out, though,” he replies. The bland certainty in his voice almost knocks the air out of Poe’s lungs. “Eventually,” he adds, because Luke has a real gift for ruining the moment.

“If you wanted me to find you sooner, you could’ve left me a few more clues,” Poe points out.

“They didn’t give me a lot of time for subterfuge,” says Luke.

From down the hallway, Poe can still hear the rhythmic thumping of the kids trying to kick down the door. They don’t seem to be getting very far. “They?”

“Our old friends, Jester and the large fellow with the tusks,” says Luke. “They were much friendlier this time; they actually knocked.”

Poe remembers the strange warp on the porch, as though something heavy had stood there. “How did they get through Yavin Four’s security net?”

“I didn’t have the opportunity to ask,” says Luke. “They said they’d been given the choice — bring me, or bring a half-dozen of the strongest Jedi students. I assumed they just wanted to torture and kill me. So I wrote the note and off we went.”

“When did you have time to hide the lightsaber?” Poe asks.

Luke smiles. “I always keep it there when I’m home,” he says, and Poe’s heart seizes just a little at that. “It seems… fitting. At any rate, I hardly wanted those two to get their hands on it. I assume you found it?”

Poe pulls it out from his boot, hands it over. He can’t stop staring at the way Luke’s right hand flexes and bends, the silver-grey metal unsettling. Luke examines his lightsaber critically, rubs at a flake of ground-in bark on the handle with absentminded disapproval. Then he hands it back. “This needs to go back with you.”

“So do you.” Poe’s going to get this across to him somehow.

But Luke is shaking his head. “You’re not listening.”

“Neither are you!” Two years later and Luke’s still stubbornly insisting that Poe needs to stop being stubborn. Maybe using the Force so much was some kind of brain drain; no wonder the general never touched it. “What’s holding you here? Did they threaten you? Tell you something awful was going to happen if you tried to escape?”

“He was much cleverer than that,” says Luke. He looks up at Poe; there’s the faint bruising of what must have been a hell of a black eye a few weeks ago. “He _showed_ me what would happen. He’s always been a big believer of practical demonstrations.”

“Who’s ‘he’?” Poe asks. “Big Boskk? Someone in the First Order?”

That seems to amuse him. “You could say that. It was Snoke. And he’s not in the First Order, Poe. He _is_ the First Order. He’s been behind it all along — their Supreme Leader.”

Poe has trouble picturing anyone taking orders from that shriveled little man, but he’s not willing to debate the merits right this moment. “Snoke is here?”

“He was. He left… four days ago. I stopped being useful.” That sounds like a quote, but Poe really doesn’t want to ask. “He said the only thing I was good for now was entertainment.”

“But he said he’d kill the kids if you tried to escape. Did he put some kind of tracker on you? Is there surveillance? Because if there is, we’re probably already in trouble.”

“They don’t need a tracker, or surveillance,” Luke says. “Snoke has found a way to… I don’t know how to describe it. He can pull your thoughts out of your head, make you say and do… very awful things.”

“That sounds bad,” Poe says, because he’s not about to say _that sounds a lot like what you can do_ right now.

“It is very, very bad,” Luke confirms. “And he wanted to do worse.”

It’s already been nearly ten minutes; someone is going to come down here, they’re going to get caught and he’s going to have to die dramatically in Luke’s arms. “So he wanted to use you to — what, become more powerful?”

“I might almost understand that,” Luke says, shaking his head. “He wants power, but… no. He brought me here to help him speed up the conditioning program. That’s the whole reason he spied on us at the Academy for nearly ten years; that’s the entire purpose of the Jedi tradition to him. To make his program _more efficient_. Right now it takes years to properly condition Stormtroopers, and it doesn’t always take even then. A waste of resources. He wants an army he can build in days out of a planet’s entire population; he wants to be able to turn anyone into a slave for him in a matter of moments. That’s all he thinks the Force is good for; to bend people into whatever shape he likes.”

“I don’t — the conditioning program uses the Force?” Poe asks.

Luke nods, swallowing. “He’s wanted me for a long time; he can pull people inside out but he can’t make it stick without dozens and dozens of cycles, not unless you’re already loyal. The ability to make someone do what you want them to, even days or years afterward — that’s not something I teach. But he wanted to learn.” He smiles, mirthless. “Or use.”

Now isn’t the time, they have to go, Poe is half-ready to just grab Luke by the arm and put him over his shoulder and _run_. But he wouldn’t get far, and part of him has to know now. “What happened?”

“I wouldn’t play along. I’m not about to strip anyone of their own minds, much less children. He kept bringing them in — the ‘next batch,’ he called them — and I had to watch as their souls were peeled away and reassembled. He kept saying that I could make it all so much easier, more painless. And all the while they were screaming, Poe.” He shuts his eyes, his face twisted with memory. “He’d bring the next batch down and they were so proud they got to go through their first conditioning under the Supreme Leader’s supervision, so happy to—“

“Luke,” Poe says, “Hey. Hey.” He cradles the back of Luke’s head, pulls him to his chest — the armor’s in the way, too clumsy, but Luke just clutches at him, frail and exhausted and frightening.

“There’s more,” Luke says after several dragging breaths. “I tried — I couldn’t let them be in so much pain. So I reached out and… he was clever. As soon as they felt my presence, they… died. However they could manage, with whatever they could find — their bare hands, tearing — twelve of them dead before I could stop it. He was so pleased the failsafe worked — he congratulated me, gave me extra rations that night.” Luke covers his face with his hands, flinching when he feels the cold metal.

Poe kneels down awkwardly. “So any time you use the Force, the kids will feel it?” And Snoke had programmed them to kill themselves when they did. It _was_ clever.

“Not all of them; sometimes the conditioning doesn’t… stick. One reason why they go through so many rounds of it. But sometimes they just need to be close enough and I can make them, I made them, made them—“

There’s nothing else to do but kiss him, make him stop talking just for a second. He licks at Luke’s mouth, puts a hand at the base of his neck so he can tilt Luke’s head just a little, pull him in and keep him there. Luke kisses back, hungry, and Poe nearly topples to the floor with the heat of it. But he just pulls him in closer because Luke has been waiting for Poe to find him and bring him home, and he’s got to convince him it’s okay to go.

“Listen,” Poe says, breathless, his other hand on Luke’s knee, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb along Luke’s thigh. “Listen. We can still get you out of here.”

“How?” Which is progress, at least. Then Luke frowns. “How did you get _in_ here, anyway?”

“Same way we’re getting out,” he tells him. “Your preferred MO, in fact.”

That gets an actual laugh, wheezing and sickly as it is. “Let me guess, Leia came up with that one.”

“There’s a chute back up on Junior Level 4,” he says, because memorizing layouts has been a part of his SOP for six years now and he was pretty good with directions even before that. “Han and the general and Chewbacca are all waiting for us just outside the tunnel. And from there, we get the hell off this island.”

“We’re on an island?” Luke says, surprised. “I couldn’t tell.”

“Not for long,” Poe says. “I’m gonna fix this, okay? We’re going to find a way, you and me.” He bends Luke’s head down, kisses the top of his head, a benediction.

“I’ve tried not using it, believe me,” Luke says. “I’ve tried just… shutting everything away. But I’m too weak.”

Poe tries to imagine Luke without the Force; without his abstracted love for it, using it for silly things, to delight himself. Luke isn’t too weak. “All right, then don’t shut it off. Focus it — focus it on me.”

“On you?” Luke doesn’t understand, and Poe’s not sure he can make him.

“Do you remember that day I came to see you at the Academy, when you ran all those experiments?” Luke flinches at the word _experiments_ , but Poe touches his chin, turns him so he’s looking at him again. “Come on, Luke. That day, you balled it up, concentrated it all in a single point.”

It’s clearly costing him, but Luke nods.

“You weren’t shutting it off then, were you?” A shake, this time. “Okay, so you’re going to do that again. Focus on me, right here,” he says, tapping his sternum. “If you do that, you shouldn’t be a danger.”

Luke doesn’t look convinced. “That just leaves us with the problem of how to get to that chute of yours. I can’t trick anyone, and the First Order arms all its soldiers. Even the children.”

“Hey,” Poe says, making a big show of being offended, “I’ll have you know that I am very, very resourceful.”

He still doesn’t look convinced. “This is going to end up like those dragon vines on D’Qar, isn’t it?”

“You, Luke Skywalker, are a killjoy.” Poe gets to his feet and holds out his hand. “I’ve got this under control.”

“What if this doesn’t work?” Luke says. It doesn’t sound like him at all, and Poe wants to ask if he’s absolutely sure nobody brainwashed him — but he’s done prisoner extractions before, found their people after looking too long, and he knows exactly what this is. Last year he had to talk Ello out of an open cell one step at a time, telling him that the bad people who’d shut him away were all dead, that nothing was going to hurt him, that everyone was waiting for him back home.

So he kisses Luke once, then again. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

“With my life,” Luke replies, and it would be a lot more emotional if he didn’t sound so resigned about it.

“Then you’ve got to trust me with this, too.” He makes a grabbing motion with his hand. Luke sighs and takes it. The metal is strange and chilly but not bad. Poe pulls Luke to his feet and tucks the lightsaber in Luke’s pocket (enjoying the reflexive scowl Luke gives him as he gets handsy). “Ready?”

“Not remotely,” but Luke lifts his left hand and puts it on Poe’s chest. A second later the warmth in the room begins to leech away, slowly at first but then faster and faster, collecting into a small sphere — this time it’s not in front of him, but lodged in his chest, burning like an ember. He puts his hand over Luke’s; he’s cold, ordinary. He looks up and Luke is watching him. “Does it hurt?”

Poe shakes his head. “More like a weird case of heartburn,” he tries. “Can you hold it like that?”

Luke slides his hand out from under Poe’s, frowning. The piece of coal doesn’t move. “I think so. We’ll find out.”

“That’s the Jedi master I know and love,” Poe says.

He isn’t prepared for the look Luke gives him; startled and wide open. Then he cocks his head. “What’s your rank these days?”

Poe grins and doesn’t kiss him this time. “How about I answer that as a reward for when we get out of here?”

Luke tenses as they get closer and closer to the supply closet, but the kids are still putting their shoulders into it. He wouldn’t bet against them getting out sooner rather than later, so he examines the comms desk, looking for the right switch. He finds a spare set of cuffs in a drawer and tosses them to Luke. “Anybody else down here that we ought to rescue?”

“I’m the only one left,” he says, and Poe’s not going to touch that. He looks better, somehow, and Poe wonders how much of Luke’s frailty was simply hopelessness.

“So who do these guys think you are, then? I’m betting they don’t know you’re Luke Skywalker.”

Luke shrugs. “The older guards certainly have no idea,” he says.

Poe finds the right console switch. Slip and Zeroes called him _the asset_ ; it was possible they don’t know anything about who’s being held down here. He’s going to hope so, anyway. He flips on the intercom. “FN-2003 and FN-2000, report to Level One immediately.”

“What are you doing?” Luke asks, tension rising in his voice.

Poe checks Luke’s restraints, squeezes his left hand briefly. “Getting backup.”

Less than five minutes later, Slip and Zeroes come tumbling out of the lift. Trying to guess the emotional state of someone encased entirely in armor is an exercise in futility, but they seem excited. “Sir?” they say, again in unison. Poe feels bad for hoping that it’s part of the training.

Poe can’t exactly catch Luke’s eye in his helmet, but Luke still has that slightly far-off expression he always gets when he’s using the Force, and the burning lump in Poe’s chest hasn’t gone anywhere. Plus, neither of the kids look like they’re in danger of trying to off themselves, so Poe’s going to call it good enough.

The closet door gives another almighty thump; both kids turn at the sound. “What was that?” Zeroes asks.

The key is not to answer questions. “All right,” he says, lowering his voice. “I’ve been authorized to bring the two of you in on this operation. But you need to keep a sharp eye out, all right? I’ve only been able to disable two of the opposing team so far.” And he gestures at the closet.

“The opposing team?” asks Slip, and gets kicked in the ankle.

“They’re doing a security drill,” Zeroes hisses at him. “ _That’s_ what he was doing in the tunnel earlier!”

“I’m impressed,” Poe says, which isn’t exactly a lie. “There are at least three more guards trying to track us down, but they’re allowed to recruit people, just like us. So we can’t be sure who’s on our side.” He gestures to Luke. “PD-4298 is playing the prisoner this time.”

Both boys nod, although Poe suspects it’s the kind of nod you give when you want to _look_ like you know what’s going on. “So what’s the plan, sir?” asks Zeroes.

“You’re smart enough, FN-2000,” Poe snaps. “You tell me.”

Zeroes looks from Poe, to Luke, to the closet, and back. “Sneak him out through the sewer?”

“ _Very_ impressive,” Poe says. “All right,” and he hands them the guards’ blasters. “You’re taking point,” he says to Zeroes, “And you and I will guard the rear. Don’t stop for anyone, go directly to the chute, and if someone tries to ask you a question, what do you do?”

This time Slip’s got the answer. “Tell them to get back to work?”

“Your supervisor was right about you,” Poe says. He doesn’t even need to look around to know that Luke is trying (and probably failing) not to roll his eyes. There’s another thump from the closet. “All right! Let’s go.”

For a while, the plan works like a charm; they get back up to Junior Level Four and march down the hallway to the sanitation alcove without incident. A few kids stop and watch them, but no one tries to get in their way, or shouts after them.

The problems start when Slip and Zeroes start asking if they can help them get through the sewer system, too. Poe pauses; both kids are somehow managing to look pathetic and pleading, which is a pretty good trick in a Stormtrooper outfit. “What?”

“We can show you how to get out the fastest way!” says Zeroes. “ _Plus_ if the opposition team comes, we know the sewers and we can hide!”

Poe can’t hesitate too long with the answer. “I was waiting for _one_ of you to suggest that,” he says, which deflates Slip a little bit but gets Zeroes looking smug as they pop off their helmets and start struggling out of their armor. Poe turns to Luke, who’s still looking a little out of focus, and murmurs, “You might want to turn around.”

Luke frowns, but the ball of heat doesn’t waver. “Why — _oh_ ,” he says, and spins around toward the wall.

Once the boys are back in their wetsuits, they climb back down into the muck: Zeroes first, then Luke, then Slip and finally Poe. He shuts the hatch carefully behind him and they climb down into darkness. Poe can honestly say he didn’t miss it.

The boys set off ahead of them, burbling to each other about all the commendations they’ll get as a result of being chosen to help with a _security drill_. “You realize,” Luke says softly, under the sound of their feet, “That they’ll probably be killed for this.”

Poe does realize it. “I don’t suppose we could bring them with us,” he asks, quiet.

Just then there’s a light ahead, and the boys are shouting “Guys! Guys, over here!”

“How many can we take?” Luke says.

But it’s just two other boys — their friends, judging by the way they’re scolding Slip and Zeroes for leaving them to do _all_ the work while they just _left_ without _telling them_. “No, no, it’s fine!” Slip is saying, showing off his blaster. “We’re part of a _security drill_!”

Poe really doesn’t want to shoot a bunch of kids. “What did I say about keeping a low profile?”

“Sir, these are our squadmates,” Slip says, with no indication that he heard a word Poe said. “Can we recruit them for our side, too?”

Saying “yes” too quickly is going to be a dead giveaway, so Poe makes a big production about thinking it over. “Are you sure they’re up to it?”

“Absolutely, sir,” says Slip.

“All right,” he growls, “But I don’t like surprises. Let’s go.”

Zeroes and Slip start moving again, along with one of their friends. The fourth one, with black hair and suspicious brown eyes, says, “Why are you running a security drill, sir?”

This one is smarter than Poe really appreciates. “The Supreme Leader had some concerns when he was here. We want to make sure the security is flawless for his next visit.”

The promise of another visit ought to distract him, and he does straighten his shoulders a little. But then he says. “I thought it was against protocol to run security drills without proper notification. Per the Operations Manual.”

“What makes you think we don’t have notification?” Poe says. “Me and PD-4298 here got authorization — unless you want to go check all our paperwork is in order.”

“No sir,” says the kid, slowly. “I’m sure you and PD-4298 have everything under control.” The kid sloshes ahead to join his friends.

“I hate the smart ones,” Poe mutters to Luke.

“I don’t think he’s your biggest fan, either.”

The water level starts rising again, but the boys seem determined to follow them all the way to the end, which is convenient. Poe’s still trying to figure out how to convince them to go through out to the shuttle, when one of them — Poe’s pretty sure it’s his interrogator — says “Wait.”

They’re right at the mouth of the big tunnel; what took Poe more than an hour to get in will be less than a minute back out. He’s pretty sure he can hold his breath that long.

“What?” asks Slip. He’s been trying to toss and catch his blaster for the past ten minutes, and has dropped it at least three times that Poe’s noticed.

Poe’s interrogator turns to Poe. “What’s _your_ designation?”

“What?” Poe asks.

“You said this guy—“ he gestures at Luke with his flashlight— “Is designated PD-4298. But none of the new guards have that designation. I memorized all of them.”

Luke wants to do something, Poe can tell, but he clenches his fists in their restraints and keeps quiet. “You forgot one.”

“I don’t think so,” the kid says to Poe.

Zeroes, much better at throwing and catching his blaster, says, “Come on, we _told_ you—“

“You told me you found this guy wandering around down here in the sewer, and now he’s taking somebody _out_ through here?” the interrogator says. “What if he’s not a soldier pretending to be a prisoner? What if he’s _actually_ a prisoner?”

“I thought they took all the prisoners away,” says the third kid, who keeps trying to take Slip’s blaster away from him.

“Everybody except for one guy,” says the interrogator. “The asset, right? That’s who this guy is. This isn’t a security drill at all—“

Poe shoves Luke into the fast-moving water; the burning in his chest wavers for just a second, and he holds his breath as he watches the kids. They’re not trying to kill themselves, so whatever Luke’s afraid of doesn’t seem to be happening.

Unfortunately, that means these kids are free to try to kill _him_. Slip aims his blaster with shaky hands and fires wildly, missing Poe by a couple feet. Poe grabs at Slip’s weapon, yanking it out of his grip and using it to clock Zeroes in the face. It doesn’t knock Zeroes out, but it knocks him down into the muck, and the third kid (who managed to catch Zeroes’s blaster) aims and fires at him.

Nothing happens. “The _safety_ ,” snarls the fourth kid, and Poe really hates that kid’s guts. He’s about to try grabbing him in a headlock when Slip pushes him, hard, backward into the fast-moving stream. He’s under before he can do more than yell. He can hear, faintly, the sound of blaster fire above and around him, slicing through the water, but the current catches him and drags him down, down, down and out into the ocean. He hopes Luke is ahead of him; he can feel the knot of fire dissipating even while they’re tumbled around, only to be replaced by burning lungs and the realization that he hadn’t taken a very deep breath before getting shoved through.

The shuttle is still floating just outside the sewer exit, powered down, but Poe can see Chewbacca peering out through the cockpit window. Luke is floating just outside the doors, waiting for him. The outer door opens and they tumble through; Poe can feel the kick of the shuttle’s engines even before the water drains, and he yanks off his helmet so he can take an actual breath for the first time in ninety seconds.

The inner door opens with a hiss, revealing Han and the general armed with towels and tense expressions. The general takes charge of her brother, which leaves Poe to Han’s tender mercies; Han refuses to even touch him until he’s taken off the armor. “You smell like shit,” he observes.

“It’s been that kind of day,” says Poe. The general, who is much meaner than her husband but a better human being overall, has helped her brother up and is currently—

Is currently lowering him onto a bench, her hand pressed over his on his side, blood staining his clothes. “What happened?” she shouts over her shoulder at Poe.

Luke answers. “Blaster,” he gasps. “I thought it missed me.”

“It didn’t,” the general says shortly, and turns to see Poe and Han standing there staring. _“Well?”_

Han throws her his towel as Poe scrambles for the medkit; by the time he brings it over, Han and the general have ripped open Luke’s shirt, revealing a nasty blast mark along the ribs. “Is it bad?” Luke asks. “It feels bad.”

“You’re always so dramatic,” says the general, tearing off a piece of meditape and fixing it over the worst of the injury. “You’ll be fine.”

Just then, Chewbacca swears and the shuttle drops, veering sharply to the left. “What the hell?” Han yells, and disappears into the cockpit.

“Dameron, do me a favor and strap him onto the bench,” says the general.

That seems to amuse Luke; his face (getting paler) crinkles in a smile. “You think I’m a security risk?”

The general huffs at him. “I think you’re going to roll off that bench and start bleeding again if Chewie tries anymore acrobatic tricks,” she says. “We’ll argue over your status as a spoil of war later.” She gets up and makes her way up to where Han and Chewbacca are yelling at each other in about three different languages, bellowing, “What the hell is going on?” as she goes.

Poe finishes strapping Luke in and takes the seat right next to him, lifting Luke’s head so he can rest it on his thigh. “I sense you’re taking advantage,” Luke says, his eyes drifting closed.

“You bet,” Poe says, patting him gently, then a little harder, on the cheek. “Come on, Luke, stay awake. We need you to not pass out right now.”

“I’m not sure why,” Luke says. “This is all probably a dream, anyway.” Then he gasps, like he’s coming up for air, and struggles to get up. “Wait — no, I have to get back — let me go, I have to get back—“

Poe tries to hold him down without hurting him, but for someone who’s been starved for a month, Luke’s still pretty strong. “General!” he calls, and she comes rushing back in, grabbing Luke’s hands in her own.

“ _Luke_ ,” she says, staring into his eyes. He stops struggling, but he’s still breathing hard. “Listen to me. We can’t help them. I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do.”

Poe, his hands still pressing down Luke’s shoulders, isn’t sure he ought to let go. “Sir?” he asks.

“He can sense what’s happening right now,” she says, brushing one hand across Luke’s face, pushing his hair off his forehead. “The First Order is bombing the base.”

“Our base?” Poe asks, feeling sick.

“Theirs,” says the General; and over the sound of the engines Poe can hear the boom of explosions, the unmistakable sound of missiles hitting unshielded rock. “They’re destroying the island."


	6. Chapter 6

The next time Poe sees Luke, it’s on Hosnian Prime, right before he’s sentenced to death.

The First Order declares war on the Resistance after denouncing the unprovoked, unwarranted, and unconscionable attack on their school for war-orphaned children on Abrania. Footage shows a half-dozen X-wings descending on the island, using missiles intended to blow up a destroyer on a target one tenth the size. The carnage is unbelievable; Poe makes himself watch every bit of it he can. A handful of children are reportedly rescued, and Poe doesn’t want to think about what kind of gods would answer his prayers that his little group survived.

The general denies any and all involvement and accuses the First Order of using illegally obtained fighters to stage the attack. It’s a gutsy move, considering she got a front-row seat to the bombing run and she can’t really say _why_ she’s so certain that the X-wings weren’t piloted by her men. But the First Order begins a campaign on the diplomatic front as well, sending delegates to the Senate insisting on the enforcement of treaties of mutual aid and assistance. The general sends Lando and Nien Nunb (the closest thing the Resistance has to a diplomatic corps) to Hosnian Prime to forestall the Senate’s move to declare the Resistance in violation of their accord.

Luke spends over a week in the infirmary; the general did something during their trip back to D’Qar to make Luke pass out around the time they hit hyperspace. Dr. Kalonia complains about having to constantly patch Luke up no matter what star system they’re in, but she doesn’t complain very much, which is its own kind of ominous. Poe is prevented from playing the part of the grieving wife by the fact that they are now at war with the First Order — every pilot is needed up in the air. By the time Poe gets back to D’Qar two weeks after the rescue, Luke has been whisked back to Yavin Four, some complicated exchange happening at the unofficial borders between Resistance and Republican space that took Statura and Guich three days to arrange. It’s unhelpful to brood about why Luke didn’t say goodbye or even leave a note, but Poe does it anyway.

They manage to stay alive by a depressing combination of luck, skill, and Lando’s ability to bluff without a single card in his hand. The Senate is dragging its feet, but everyone knows that with the evidence given by the First Order, there’s a very real possibility that the New Republic will revoke its agreements with the Resistance - or worse yet, align with the First Order against them.

Things come to a head four months after the destruction of the base on Abrania; Poe finds out when he’s summoned to the general’s office and finds Lando and Nien Nunb there with her.

“You wanted me, sir?” Poe asks. He’s still in his flight suit, covered in about four days of sweat and engine oil and he has two letters to write tonight, condolences and lies to families saying that their offspring died quickly with no pain and that their bodies were cremated solely out of respect, not because there was so little left that sending home the remains would have been cruelty.

“Thanks for coming, Colonel,” says the general. “Please, sit down.”

The thank you is suspicious, the designation is _very_ suspicious, and by the time he’s sitting in his chair he’s bracing himself for the worst. “What is it, sir? Did something happen? Is—“

The question won’t move past his throat, and the general takes pity on him. “Luke’s fine, Poe. I’m assuming, anyway — he hasn’t really been in touch. No. This is… a request.”

Lando shifts in his seat, obviously irritated at something; Commander Nunb purses his lips and folds his arms over his chest. “Whatever you need, sir,” Poe says.

“See?” Lando says. “I told you.”

“Shut up,” she snaps, and turns back to Poe. “Wait until I actually make the request, Dameron, otherwise you sound like a suck-up.”

“Yes, sir,” Poe says, nodding seriously.

“We’ve hit a snag in negotiations with the Senate,” she tells him. “They claim to have a witness - several of them - that will testify to seeing a member of the Resistance infiltrate the base and steal something of value mere minutes before the base was destroyed.”

Poe frowns. “Something of value?”

“The First Order isn’t exactly willing to admit that they kidnapped and tortured Luke Skywalker,” says Lando.

“That’s an advantage for us, then. We can just tell the Senate the truth.” says Poe. Silence answers him, and he looks around at awkward expressions. “Can’t we?”

“A very good question!” says Nunb, “And an infuriating one!”

“Before he left,” says the general, the clench of her jaw leaving very little room to guess about who _he_ was, “He told me he wasn’t going to testify against the First Order, and that if I, quote, ‘tried using him as a bargaining chip,’ endquote, he’d deny everything.”

Sometimes when he wakes up, just for a second, Poe can still feel the burn of Luke’s energy lodged in his chest, the scrape of his teeth on Poe’s lips. “ _Why_?” he says, the only thing he can say.

“I’d like to ask him,” the general says. “But it puts us in a bit of a jam, because either the First Order is bluffing—“

“Which they aren’t,” says Lando. “Trust me.”

“—Or they really do have a witness.”

“Am I going to get kicked out of the Resistance if I say I hope they do, sir?” asks Poe.

The general smiles; during Poe’s debrief of the rescue mission she’d taken an instant shine to the asshole kid who’d seen through Poe’s bullshit right away in the sewers. “Not this time,” she says, before her expression turns serious again. “But if they do, Dameron, that means that the First Order has one more weapon against us on this front. They’re claiming that the infiltration and theft was all part of the plot to destroy their 'school'; that we murdered three thousand innocent children in order to cover up our misdeeds.”

“And the theft somehow makes everything worse, sir?” Poe asks. He hasn’t been trained much in diplomacy.

“The fact is,” says Lando, “Bombing that island wasn’t, technically, a war crime. The New Republic’s got treaties and accords with both the First Order and with us, but if we start slapping each other around, the New Republic isn’t obliged to get involved. Only it turns out,” and he flashes his brilliant, I-hate-everything-and-everyone smile, “That in order to get the Fleet to call off its warrants against our fighters — that’d be _you_ guys — we agreed to follow the Galactic Concordance. And under the Concordance, killing non-combatants for the sole purpose of concealing covert operations is defined as a war crime.”

“That means the Senate can, and is about to, declare us enemies of the New Republic.” The general looks nauseated, which is understandable. “Unless we can figure a way out of this mess.”

“Which is why you are here!” says Nunb, clapping his hands together. “We have a plan! Which is terrible!”

“Which is the best one we’ve got,” says Lando. It sounds like the tail-end of an argument that’s been going on for a few hours at least.

The general gets up from her chair, circles around the desk to lean on it. She looks very small, even standing above him. “Leaving aside the fact that the entire reason the Resistance began was to _protect_ the New Republic, we can’t win a war against both them and the First Order,” she tells him. “Not if they’re united, not if everyone believes we did this. The Senate’s been keeping a lid on it but if the First Order has its way, everyone on a Republic planet will hear about the loathsome Resistance and its butchering of innocent children. And we have no proof to give them that we didn’t bomb that base. The only thing we can do is claim that we found the man responsible, disavow everything he’s done, and hand him over to the First Order for trial and… sentencing. The Senate will consider the matter closed, and the First Order won’t have anything to hold against us.”

It’s on the tip of Poe’s tongue to ask who the hell they’re going to pretend is the _person responsible_ when he looks up at the general, who’s watching him grimly. “Oh,” he says, very softly.

“Yeah,” says Lando.

Poe gets a lot of shit from his squad — from everybody — about Luke Skywalker, Intergalactic Dreamboat. For his fifteenth birthday, Kala had found an old holoprojection of Luke, Han and Chewbacca right after their ceremony at Yavin, and modified it to project just Luke; she’d added special sparkling effects, little suspecting that Poe would keep it on as a nightlight until a drunken evening accidentally knocked it out their fourth-floor window. He’s been called Mrs. Skywalker by friends and enemies alike, even while they roll their eyes or elbow him in the ribs. There are darker mutterings, too, assumptions people have made about Luke’s proclivities that have resulted in more than one bloody nose in a dark alley.

But if Poe’s heart has been carried around absently in Luke’s pocket all these years, his soul belongs to Leia Organa, leader of the Rebellion and general of the Resistance, a woman so solid that she can move planets around her. He left the Fleet for her, has killed and bled for her, and he knows one day he’ll die for her, too. There’s a comfort in knowing that it’s now. It’s here.

“When do I leave, sir?” he asks.

She closes her eyes, her hands in fists against the edge of the desk. “Dameron, I want you to think about this.”

Lando is already standing up. “Leia, he’s onboard. The sooner we do this, the better.”

“No!” says Nunb, shaking his finger at Lando. “Just because he agrees to a stupid plan does not make it less stupid! You cannot do this!”

“What choice have we got?” Lando shoots back. “We’re here to destroy the Imperial Factions, not replace them. If the New Republic is against us then what are we fighting for?”

“We are fighting for freedom! For innocent lives! Like those children! Not for this! Not for lies!”

Poe keeps his eyes on the general; she doesn’t look away as she says, “Nien, I understand your objections. But Colonel Dameron’s agreed and we don’t have much time.”

Nunb throws his hands up. “I will not be part of this!” Poe hears the door open and Nunb stomp out. The door closes and there’s only silence.

“All right,” says Lando. “Dameron, you’ve got an hour to change and get yourself ready before we head out. That long enough?”

“Yes, sir,” Poe says. He wonders what percentage of the rest of his life that boils down to, now.

“Good. I’ll see if I can collar someone else to come along for the ride.”

Lando heads out, but the general is still watching Poe. He gets to his feet, offers her a salute. “It’s been an honor, sir,” he says.

She doesn’t respond for a moment; now that he’s standing she seems even smaller. “You told me once,” she says, “That you hoped you’d do your mother proud. You wanted to live up to her reputation.”

Poe tries a smile. “I guess I won’t have much chance now, sir,” he says. “But it was fun trying.”

She steps forward, cups his face in her hands — the way Mama had when he’d fallen down, smiling at him and telling him he was all right, go off and play now. “You have, Poe,” she says softly. “You’ve lived up to everything.”

“Yes, sir,” Poe says, and she stands on her tiptoes to kiss him on the forehead.

“May the Force be with you,” she whispers.

“Thank you, sir.” She lets him go and he manages to get to the door without falling apart.

BB-8 is waiting for him in the command center, rocking back and forth idly. “I am at 3.17% power,” it accuses him.

“Sorry, buddy,” Poe says. “Let’s go home and get you charged up.”

“Let’s,” it says, and Poe watches it roll off ahead of him, up the corridor and back out into the sunshine, weaving deftly around people as it bounces along the dirt path. He should clean BB-8 before he goes, make sure its subroutines can be adapted to Kala or whoever else needs it. But BB-8’s too smart; if he tries accessing its programming it will ask why, ask where he’s going. Poe doesn’t want to say goodbye to anyone — he’s not sure he can.

So he plugs BB-8 into the charger in his room and says, “You might as well power down, the general gave us some time off. I can kick you if anything important comes up.”

“I can electrocute you in your sleep,” BB-8 chirps, and puts itself into low-power mode, still recording visual and audio data but not processing anything until the next active cycle.

Poe sits down to write the letters of condolence to the families of Tune Kayo and Ispadro ‘Yl, killed late last night in a raid. He tells the families stories about their children, moments from their lives here on base; he writes that they were great fighters and an inspiration to everyone they met. When he’s finished, he sends them out to Comms for dispersal; chances are he’ll be dead before these families get the messages a few days from now.

He cleans himself up and puts on the best clothes he’s got; other than the flight suits, the Resistance doesn’t go in for uniforms. But he pulls on his jacket and looks in the mirror and thinks he looks a lot like a soldier.

He bends down next to BB-8, careful not to reactivate it. “Listen, buddy,” he says, “I’ve got to go, but I want you to remember that you’re one of a kind. Don’t let anybody treat you like you’re nothing special. Stick with people who do right by you, and you do right by them.” He tries to say _don’t worry_ or _I’ll be home soon_. But instead he stands up and walks out the door, shuts it carefully behind him.

Kala’s off-base, which is a relief, and everyone else just whistles as he passes or asks who the lucky gentlebeing is tonight. Poe either answers or makes a rude gesture, depending, and keeps walking with a smile on his face.

Lando is waiting for him in the airfield with Korr Sella; Poe’s met her a half-dozen times, usually while she’s arguing with the general over sanctions or treaties or trade agreements. She nods stiffly at him as he comes up.

“General,” he greets them, “Colonel.”

“Let’s get going before Leia changes her mind,” says Lando, and they board the transport. There’s a bit of an unspoken argument at the cockpit doors; Poe goes automatically for the pilot’s chair, which puts him on a collision course with both Sella and Lando. They all look at each other warily for a second.

“You’re the highest-ranking officer, sir,” Poe points out. “I can fly us there.”

“You can’t fly us back,” Lando points out, which shouldn’t be funny but makes Poe want to laugh anyway.

“Consider it a last request, then, sir,” Poe says, and Sella makes a pained noise.

Lando grins. “Kids these days, so melodramatic.” But he cedes Poe the pilot’s chair and sits in back with Sella, talking in low voices as Poe lifts them out of atmo and plots their circuitous route to Hosnian Prime.

There’s a rhythm to every ship, Poe’s found; even within the same make and model, every one is just a little bit different, a little bit strange. Poe’s never flown this particular transport and he’s able to lose himself in the introductions, learning what she likes and how she moves. As last rides go, she’s not bad. Poe’s already going to miss her.

He spends most of the trip kicked back in the cockpit, watching hyperspace slide past. Lando and Sella don’t say much to him, and he doesn’t say much to them. When he announces that they’re coming out of hyperspace, his voice sounds hoarse and unfamiliar.

Hosnian Prime reminds Poe a lot of Naboo; unbelievably tall buildings, graceful as they stretch up toward the sky. The Senate is housed in a breathtaking tower near the edge of the sea, paper-thin windows letting in just the right amount of sunlight, just enough to make you believe in something mythic and all-powerful as you take in the view. Poe stands with Lando and Sella in the lift and looks out on the ocean waves.

“The Senate will convene tomorrow and hear arguments for and against your surrender to the First Order,” Sella tells him. “And after that, it should take a week or so for everything to be arranged. So you have—“ she looks uncomfortable, then says, “A little bit of time.”

Evidently they’re expected; a protocol droid greets them as the lift doors open on a beautiful hallway. “Senator Antilles wishes to speak with you, General Lando,” it says, bowing the exact degree required.

Lando heaves a sigh. “Well,” he says, “Shit. All right.”

“Senator Antilles?” Poe asks. The only Antilles he knows of is a general of the Fleet.

“Wedge moved up in the world,” growls Lando as they follow the droid down the hall. “Got himself a nice comfy seat last year.”

“He was more or less forced to accept the post,” Sella points out, and Lando makes a face that makes Poe think they’ve had this conversation before.

“He could’ve defected,” says Lando, slanting a glance at Poe. “That’s what all the cool kids are doing.”

They arrive at a pair of double doors which open to reveal a large room with a fountain in one corner and a sweeping view of the city, the gathering evening sending up a sprinkle of lights in each building below. Wedge Antilles is sitting across from someone at a long desk, clearly waiting for them. The other man turns around; a human, maybe two or three years older than Poe, with a shock of orange hair and a sneering, amused expression.

“Which one of them is the criminal?” he asks, turning back to Antilles.

Antilles stands up, ignoring the comment. “General, thank you for coming.”

“Senator,” says Lando. It sounds like an insult, and Antilles’s twitching eye indicates it was taken as such. “Is there a reason you wanted to see me? As you might remember, we’re on a little bit of a deadline.”

“That’s why I asked to see you beforehand. This,” he says, thrusting his chin at the man still lounging in his chair, “Is Commandant Hux of the First Order. He’s come to escort Colonel Dameron back to First Order Territory, effective immediately.”

Lando is busy glaring holes through Antilles, so Sella says, “We were under the impression that the Senate needed time to debate whether or not to turn over the colonel.”

“The Senate,” says Hux, not turning to look at her but instead examining the cuff of his uniform, “Has already come to the obvious conclusion that harboring a man such as the one you have been concealing in your ranks all these years would be an offense to the natural order of things. He is a monster of the grossest kind, to have slaughtered those defenseless children without remorse.” He smiles slightly. “What else is there to do but be rid of him?”

“Senator, I’m sure you can appreciate that we came here as quickly as possible,” says Sella, her own words clipped and rushed. “And we came with the understanding that Colonel Dameron would have at least the time afforded by the Senate’s deliberation to make such arrangements as he might feel are necessary. We would request at least a few days be granted, for—“

“I’m sorry,” says Antilles, and at least he sounds sorry. “Commandant Hux has the Senate’s full authority to take immediate charge of the accused.”

“Of the guilty,” Hux corrects. “ _Our_ trial has already concluded, Senator. I am merely here to ensure the prisoner is handed over without undue… fuss. So much unpleasantness has already transpired as a result of his horrific crimes.” His moue of distaste turns into something else when he glances up at Poe, regards him thoughtfully. “We know _quite_ a lot about you, Poe Dameron. The Supreme Leader is looking forward to making your better acquaintance.”

Poe doesn’t answer. Already he’s reciting his name, designation, and date of birth in his head, holding tightly to it. He wonders when he’ll start being scared; right now he just feels numb, frozen down to his toes.

“Sir,” Sella says to Antilles, who is still glaring back at Lando, “Wait a day before signing Colonel Dameron over. That’s all we ask.”

“And what would be waiting _for_ , exactly?” says Hux, looking impatient. “For a confession to yet another crime? For—“

“For me to show up, probably,” Luke says from behind them, just as a wave of heat spills over Poe, leaves him dizzy. He looks up and Luke is standing in the doorway, staring down both Lando and Antilles. “Sorry I’m late,” he adds, and comes in.

Hux gets up, straightening his uniform and bowing low. “Master Luke,” he says. “You do us great honor.”

Luke looks him over. “I’m sure I do,” he replies, and takes Hux’s chair. “Now. I understand there’s a bit of confusion going on. Perhaps someone would like to clear things up for me?”

There’s a long, awkward silence.

Poe has known Luke his whole life, has marked his hours and years with him, knows him down to the bones and the heart. But he forgets that Luke has always been two people; that he knows almost nothing about the Luke Skywalker who can destroy entire worlds, create new faiths and make emperors kneel at his feet. He forgets that Luke Skywalker is feared by every single person in the galaxy, even while Luke can make an ember in Poe’s chest without burning him.

He remembers now, in the dry click of Hux’s throat as he swallows, in the way Antilles looks down at his desk.

Sella, looking very nearly as terrified, is the one who speaks first. “Commander,” she says, then takes a breath and continues, “Commander Skywalker, we are in the midst of negotiations between ourselves, the New Republic, and the First Order in the matter of the destruction of the First Order’s base on Abrania. Colonel Dameron has confessed to staging an unauthorized and unsanctioned solo mission to infiltrate the base, stealing a valuable and top secret new weapon. He then called in an air strike and directly caused the deaths of three thousand, one hundred and seventy-three non-combatants.”

“Children,” amends Hux. “Those poor, _poor_ children.”

Luke listens to Sella’s recitation with a curiously expressionless face, though his eyebrows lifts a little bit at _confessed_ and _weapon_ ; now he sits there, lost in thought. The loudest thing in the room is the sound of Luke’s right hand, drumming idly against the armrest. He’s still got his beard, a bit longer now but cleaner than the last time Poe saw him, in the back of the shuttlecraft, his face pressed into Poe’s thigh. He’s too thin and too pale and when Luke glances up at him, there’s an anger in his eyes that makes Poe, for the first time in his life, afraid.

“So where are they?” Luke asks, after long minutes have gone by.

Antilles, still standing awkwardly, looks around at everyone. “What?” he asks.

“The confession,” Luke says, gesturing to Poe, “And the weapon. I assume the First Order would want both.”

Lando throws up his hands. “This is why nobody likes you, Skywalker,” he says, and stalks off to sit on the ledge of the fountain.

“I haven’t confessed,” says Poe, because no one has actually answered Luke’s question.

“Not officially,” Sella adds. “He… confessed to General Organa, and we brought him here right away to—“

“To be killed,” Luke says. He watches Hux thoughtfully. “That’s what’s going to happen to him, isn’t it?”

As though it’s being dragged out of him, Hux says, “The Supreme Leader believes his death would be a waste of valuable resources, Master Luke.”

“What a relief,” Luke says. “And here I thought I couldn’t possibly be saving him from a fate _worse_ than death.”

“Saving him?” Antilles sits down at this point. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the ‘unauthorized attack’ on its base that the First Order is trying to make into a case for all-out war,” Luke says. “I’m talking about a weapon that was taken out of the First Order’s hands because no one should have that kind of power. I’m talking about where the responsibility lies for the action taken by Colonel Dameron four months ago.” He looks back at Poe; the anger is still there, but he says, “Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.”

Poe’s never been good at self-preservation, so he smiles and says, “I owe it all to you, Commander.” By the fountain, Lando makes an unhappy noise.

“Colonel Dameron is the one responsible—“ Hux starts, but Luke waves a hand and his jaw shuts with an audible _snap_.

“No, he isn’t,” Luke says. “I am.”

Antilles covers his face with his hands. “Luke—“

“Master Luke—“

“Sir—“

“What?” Poe says, louder than any of them. “What the hell are you doing?”

That seems to surprise Luke, at least a little. “Exactly what you wanted, Poe. Well done.” He turns back to Antilles. “I contacted the Colonel and gave him the mission; he was to retrieve a very dangerous, very powerful weapon that had fallen into the hands of the First Order.”

“ _What_ weapon?” demands Antilles.

“Me,” Luke answers. “The First Order had me kidnapped over five months ago; I escaped with the assistance of Colonel Dameron.”

“Even if this were not the most scurrilous of lies,” Hux says, looking bug-eyed, “That would mean it was you, Master Luke, who ordered the destruction of our base and the deaths of countless—“

“Not countless,” Luke says. “Three thousand, one hundred and seventy-three. And I didn’t remember that number from what Korr told me. I felt every single one. But no,” he adds, “I’m not going to do you the favor of confessing to murders you committed. It was First Order pilots flying the X-wings that destroyed the base, and I’ll testify to the Senate as much.”

Hux must either have a death wish or balls the size of the core worlds, because he says, “We have _mountains_ of evidence showing the Resistance’s culpability in this matter.”

Luke smiles, sharp and wide. “Do you think there’s a single person in the galaxy who will believe the evidence of their own eyes over the word of Luke Skywalker?” Hux doesn’t have anything to say to that, and Luke nods. “The Jedi are not under the auspices of the New Republic; we hold with no treaties and abide by no conditions. If the First Order would like to declare war against _me_ ,” he says, spreading his hands, “You’re more than welcome. But your declaration of war against the Resistance is illegal — and you know it. So I suggest you tell your Supreme Leader that Luke Skywalker thinks he ought to stand down his forces before anyone else gets hurt.”

“And what about Colonel Dameron?” says Hux, his hands balled into fists. “According to our laws—“

“I don’t answer to your laws,” Luke says. “I don’t answer to anyone. Colonel Dameron did what I told him to do, like any good soldier.”

“Or any good slave,” says Hux, who definitely has a death wish.

But Luke seems to find it amusing. “Run along back to your master,” he tells Hux. “Tell him he doesn’t know me nearly as well as he thought.”

Hux glances up at Poe, a smile curling at his mouth. “I believe he knows you much better than you imagine, Master Luke.” He bows again, then turns on his heel and marches out. The doors sigh open and closed, leaving silence.

Not for long; Lando blows a big puff of air out and gets to his feet. “Well,” he says, clapping his hands together, “Let’s never do that again.”

Antilles is still looking baffled. “Luke,” he says, “What the hell was all that? I thought the Resistance—“

“You really thought the Resistance bombed a base full of kids?” Luke says, relaxing back in the chair. “Come on, Wedge. I know you don’t like them much, but even you had to smell something off about this.”

“So is it true? Were you kidnapped, or—“ Wedge looks up at Poe, as though he’s noticing him for the first time. Poe has the distinct pleasure of getting appraised and dismissed in under a second. “You’re telling me this kid _rescued_ you?”

“He’s full of surprises,” Luke says darkly. “The First Order was gambling that I wouldn’t say anything, even after all this, because they think I won’t risk turning a skirmish between the Resistance and an Imperial faction into another galactic war.”

“And yet here you are,” says Antilles, looking up at Lando, who’s wandered back over.

“Here he is,” Lando agrees. “The Force truly is with us.” He turns to Luke. “So when do you testify?”

Luke blinks at him, then laughs a little. “I don’t,” he says.

That wipes the smile right off Lando’s face. “You just said—“

“I’ll testify if the Senate asks me to,” Luke says. “Which is why Wedge is going to make sure they never, ever ask me to.”

Antilles licks his lips. “I can’t promise—“

“You’ve always been bad with promises, haven’t you?” Luke says, standing up. “But you’re going to make this one, Wedge, and you’re going to honor it. If Luke Skywalker testifies as to what happened on that base, the Fleet will have three billion volunteers the next day. And a billion more who won’t wait for the Fleet, or the Resistance, or anything else; they’ll get on a ship and point it straight at the nearest Imperial faction. It won’t be a fight between the Resistance and the First Order, it won’t even be war — it’ll be anarchy from here to the Outer Rim. The New Republic might win in the end — but you’ll decimate a thousand planets to do it. Are you ready for that?”

“You always were a bit of a bastard,” Antilles says, sounding impressed.

Luke smiles, thin. “I know exactly who my father was,” he says softly. “And so do you.” He walks to the door and pauses, turns back. “Poe, if you wouldn’t mind accompanying me? I’d like to have a word with General Organa.”

Poe looks at Sella and Lando, who share equally unenthused expressions. “We’ll catch up in the transport,” Lando says, waving him off. “You two have… fun.”

Feeling betrayed, Poe follows Luke out the door. “Thanks,” he tries, once they’re safe in the hallway.

“I’m seriously considering putting you through the airlock the minute we get into hyperspace,” Luke says, “So I wouldn’t thank me just yet.”

“What did _I_ do?” Poe demands, because Luke’s anger is making the air shimmer, making the hair on the back of Poe’s neck stand straight up.

“You did what you always do,” Luke says. “You charmed your way through.”

He refuses to say another word as they make the journey back to D’Qar. R2-D2 tries valiantly to make small talk with Poe, but Luke glares at it with each attempt and after a while R2 shuts down with a long, judgmental whistle. Poe’s half-grateful for the silence, as unnerving as it is; about halfway back his body seems to realize that he’s not actually going to die, and instead of having to explain his feelings, he can just shove his shaking hands under his thighs and stare at his feet, taking in one breath after another.

They land on D’Qar just as the sun is setting — it’s the same day Poe left, he realizes. Luke stomps off the shuttle and into the hubbub of the airfield; Poe follows him more out of lack of any better ideas. He’d kind of like to sleep, now that he knows he’s not about to get summarily executed by the First Order, but Luke still looks like he wants to shove him out an airlock, so he tries to keep up.

Apparently he doesn’t do it well enough; halfway through the command center, Luke snags Poe by the elbow and starts hauling him bodily toward the general’s office. “You know,” Poe says, trying to twist out of his grip (which, considering Luke’s using his right hand, is an exercise in futility), “You could just _tell_ me where you wanted me to go.”

“I’ll tell you exactly where to go,” Luke says, “Right after we have a little conversation with my sister.”

Resigning himself to a numb arm, Poe half-staggers alongside Luke as they make their way down the corridor and arrive at the door. The lock appears to be engaged, but Luke glares at it and it beeps quietly to green, the door creaking open.

The general doesn’t look very surprised to see them. “Luke, my dearest brother,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “What a surprise.”

“You dropped something,” says Luke, finally letting go of Poe’s arm, “On Hosnian Prime. I’ve come to return it.”

“ _It_?” Poe demands.

“Hello to you too,” the general says.

“Is this how it’s going to be from now on, Leia?” Luke says. “If you can’t convince me, you’ll what, blackmail me?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t run the Resistance for the express purpose of pissing you off,” the general snaps. “Nor do I make decisions based on whether or not you’ll approve.”

“You sent him there knowing what would happen,” Luke snarls back. “You used me—“

“I used _him_ ,” she says, pointing at Poe. She seems to realize he’s actually there as she does it. “Glad to see you’re still with us, Dameron.”

“Thank you, sir, but what’s going on?” Poe asks, looking back and forth between them.

“What’s going on is that your little plan worked perfectly,” says Luke, pacing toward the window and back. He was still crackling with anger. “Tell me, Poe, was it your idea? It really was ingenious.”

“It was mine,” says the general, “So if you’re going to throw lightning bolts at anyone, aim for me. Poe had no idea.”

“No idea about _what_ , sir?” It’s like he’s only getting every other sentence in this fight, trying to piece together what the hell they’re talking about.

Luke stops pacing and stares at Poe. “What?”

The general huffs. “Sit down, both of you, you’re giving me a crick in my neck.”

Poe sits. Luke looks like he wants to argue, but he settles himself in the other chair, folds his arms across his chest. “You were just going to hand him over to the First Order?”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to,” says the general. “But yes. We can’t afford to fight both the First Order and the New Republic. If Dameron’s death could have given us an opportunity to avoid all-out war, I was prepared to do it. And so was he.”

“I’m still lost, sir,” Poe admits.

“Leia sent you to Hosnian Prime because she knew I wouldn’t allow you to be handed over to the First Order,” Luke says. He still sounds angry, but it’s not sizzling in the air anymore.

“I _didn’t_ know,” the general says, “Which is the whole point. Look, Luke, I understand if you blame me for what happened on that base—“

“I don’t,” says Luke, although he’s got his arms crossed while he says it. “Those children would have died no matter what — they were all expendable to Snoke. _Everyone’s_ expendable to him. He doesn’t see people; he sees opportunities. I didn’t expect my own sister to sound so much like him.”

“Then get your hearing checked, you _nerf-herder,_ ” snaps the general. “I took a risk because I am at war with people who will kill thousands of children just so they can kill thousands more. You think sitting on the sidelines is going to keep the galaxy safe? All you’re doing is condemning good people to death without giving them a chance to choose what they’re dying for.”

“So a meaningful death is all you care about?” Luke demands.

“Of course not,” the general says. She doesn’t look angry anymore; she looks beaten. “But if the First Order, if any of the other factions have their way, it’s all we’ll have left. I know you don’t want to be part of this fight — I know you think you’ll just lead more people to their deaths. But they’re going to die, Luke. If you don’t stand with us, the Dark Side will win.”

Luke gets up and walks out. Poe takes his first full breath since getting off the shuttle. “He’s been doing that a lot today, sir,” he tells the general.

She rubs at the bridge of her nose. “I bet,” she says. “Do me a favor and see if he’s flouncing off back to Yavin Four or if he’s just trying to mind-trick all my officers into holding hands and singing songs of peace and harmony, will you?”

“I don’t think I’m his favorite person right now, sir,” Poe says, because he’s pretty sure Luke is still fantasizing about that airlock.

She gives him a look. “Sometimes, Dameron,” she says, “You’re really stupid. Go.”

Despite the fact that he’s got less than thirty seconds lead, Luke has already disappeared. Poe first checks the airfield, but the shuttle is still resting in its berth, R2-D2 whistling idly to itself as it performs diagnostic checks. “Did Luke come back this way?” he asks.

R2 spins its module thoughtfully. “Nope,” it says. “And I wouldn’t let that sad sack of [STATIC] back on if he did. Not until he cheers the [STATIC] up.”

Poe grins. “Did he remove your expletive protocol again?”

“That [STATIC] [STATIC],” R2 confirms mournfully.

“Sorry, buddy, that’s rough. If he comes back, let me know?”

“Will do,” R2 whistles, and goes back to its routine.

The base has grown a lot since they first came here, but it’s still small for the number of people it houses, crowded. There aren’t a whole lot of places to go if you want to be alone. Poe closes his eyes; he can feel Luke, to the north-west, but strangely contained and faint. He makes his way toward the Garden.

D’Qar is unusually accommodating to alien plant life; over the years soldiers have planted their favorite flowers or vegetables or, on one memorable occasion, their pet bush in the north-west corner of the grounds. It’s far enough away from the airfield and the base and the barracks not to be in the way, close enough (and within the bounds of the forcefield) to allow people to wander over during their nonexistent free time and tend to whatever plant they’ve got there. Poe hasn’t planted anything himself, but he’s helped Kala and Ello sometimes, dug his hands into the earth to prepare it for something new.

Luke is sitting on a bench toward the far corner, his elbows braced on his knees. It’s jarring — Poe can see him, but it’s like Luke’s only half-there, all the warmth folded away. He looks up and sees Poe; his scowl is accompanied by that same rush of heat Poe felt on Hosnian Prime, like a dam giving way.

Poe suppresses a shiver as he sits down on the other side of the bench. “You’ve been practicing that?” he asks, making an illustrative ball with his fist. “Because I’ve gotta say, I don’t think it’s going to be a huge hit at parties.”

“I didn’t relish the thought of getting tracked down at the moment,” Luke says.

“I found you anyway.”

“Was that plan really Leia’s?” He doesn’t look at Poe, just watches the hydroferns waving idly in the breeze.

“I think it was Lando’s,” Poe admits. “The general didn’t want to do it. Neither did Lando, I don’t think.”

“They did it, anyway,” Luke says. “As did you.”

It’s not a question, so Poe doesn’t answer. Luke turns then to look at him, and Poe looks back. He doesn’t know what Luke wants to see.

After a few moments, Luke sighs and looks away again. “And you did it thinking you were going to be handed over. You thought I wasn’t going to—“ he bites back whatever he was going to say.

“I don’t expect to get rescued from every dumb thing I do,” Poe says. Luke gives him a look and he amends, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you turned up when you did. But I didn’t put myself out there like a — what did you call it? The thing on a stick?”

Luke’s puzzlement clears into something that wants to be a smile. “A _blandan_ ,” he says.

“A _blandan_ , that’s it.” He hesitates. “The general asked me to take the fall in order to save the Resistance. It was an ugly decision, but she let me make it. _I_ was the one who said yes.”

“That’s what scares me,” says Luke.

“It scares me, too,” Poe says, honest. “I didn’t want to die. I _don’t_ want to die. But I’m not like you, Luke. I can’t change the fate of the galaxy with a wave of my hand. I’m not saying it’s easy,” he adds, because Luke is looking grumpy again, “And I know what you did back there wasn’t what you wanted. But I would’ve died to do what you did with a few words. And I would have been all right with that.”

“I wouldn’t have,” says Luke, and Poe can’t resist reaching out anymore, putting his hand over Luke’s, tangling their fingers together. Luke shuts his eyes and lifts their hands to his lips, his mouth against the join of Poe’s thumb. “I’m not just afraid for you anymore. I’m afraid _of_ you — of what you can do to me.” He runs his cheek across the back of Poe’s hand. “What you can make me do.”

Poe’s not sure there’s any oxygen left to breathe on the entire planet. He’s lightheaded, pressed against the force of it and fighting for air. He tugs on his hand to make Luke look up so he can press a kiss at the corner of his eye, the curve of his cheek. Luke’s eyes are shut, but he turns toward Poe for each kiss; when Poe pulls away he blinks his eyes open, slowly, his pupils blown black.

“I’m not going to make you do anything,” Poe murmurs. “What I do — what I risk, that’s got to be for me, for my own sake. I can’t spend my life waiting for you to come save me. And I don’t want to. So no ultimatums. No blackmail. I’m not here for that. I’m never going to force your hand like that again, okay?”

Luke laughs at that, unwilling but real. “That’s the whole point, Poe — you didn’t force my hand this time. It’s not something you can control. I have to make that promise, too — it can only go both ways.”

“Then promise me,” Poe says, shifting closer, curling one leg up on the seat so he can lean forward into Luke’s space. “If I go on a suicide mission, or if I get captured — don’t wave your hand and make it all go away. You let me go.”

“You’re asking the impossible,” Luke says, flatly.

“I’m asking a lot,” Poe allows. “I’m asking you to be ordinary, just for me. And I’m asking for a date once I make Admiral.”

“Admiral?” asks Luke, and it’s a real smile this time. “What happened to your dreams of General Dameron?”

Poe shrugs, makes a see-saw gesture with his free hand. “I mean, I don’t want to jeopardize the general’s standing,” he says modestly.

“You remind me a lot of her sometimes.”

“That sounds like a compliment,” Poe says, grinning.

Luke looks down at their hands, still tangled together. “It’s not an insult.”

“So, the only thing Admiral Dameron is going to make you do is take him out for dinner and maybe some dancing. And maybe walk him home,” Poe adds. “And meanwhile, I’m going to fight and you’re going to teach and we’re going to try our hardest to live through it.”

“Are you saying you want me to stay out of it?” Luke asks, sounding skeptical. “After all this?”

Poe can still hear the roar of silence in that room on Hosnian Prime, as Luke sat and waited for someone to answer him. “I’m saying that you just forced three of the galaxy’s most powerful military forces into a truce today. You’re not out of it. But I — I think I get it, now. Why you want to stay as far away as you can. It was… a little bit terrifying to see what you can do.”

“You don’t sound terrified,” Luke observes.

“Oh, I’m shaking in my boots,” Poe promises. He gets up, pulling Luke along with him. “You should go apologize to your sister before you leave. I wasn’t lying before — she let me make the choice.”

Luke sighs, and shakes the dust off his cloak. “I suppose that’s worth at least a thank you,” he grumbles. “But I can’t say I’m happy about it.”

“We’ve all got to make sacrifices for the ones we love,” Poe agrees, and leads Luke out of the Garden.

  


*

  


The next time Poe sees Luke, he doesn’t know it’s one of the last.

Officially, Luke Skywalker has declared his neutrality in the conflict between the New Republic and the Resistance; he deplores the violence coming from all quarters and promotes only peace and harmony. Unofficially, the Jedi Academy is making plans to clear out of Republican territory within the month, to settle in a remote sector untroubled by any of the factions still battling — though more quietly now — for control. The general sends Poe and a dozen other fighters out on scouting missions to find somewhere suitable.

Ello reports back on an uninhabited moon in the Laukan system that meets all of Luke’s requirements, which began and ended with “no ice planets.” They establish a basic camp with some prefabs and rocktents; it’s about as far removed from the Academy as it’s possible to imagine, but Poe stands on a hill overlooking the site and thinks that if the Force is anywhere, it’s here.

The general and Han come out to the moon to greet the students as they disembark, making for a pleasant little impromptu ceremony because the general is at that point in her career where just her presence makes for a big deal. Poe, by sheer dint of being too unimportant, gets to skip the speeches; he and the rest of the crew gather up their things into the shuttle bound for D’Qar once the students have settled in. He hasn’t seen Luke yet, but he can feel him, and he whistles an obnoxious tune as he works until Kala throws a spanner at him.

Han, who never sticks around for any ceremony where he’s not getting an award, comes wandering into the crew’s makeshift camp just as they’re dismantling the last of the tents. “Might want to keep a few of those up,” he says, leaning against the shuttle. “Me and Leia are staying tonight.”

Poe is about to ask why when he remembers that Ben is here with the rest of the Academy — as a teacher, no less — and that Han and the general, bafflingly, might want to spend some time with him. “We’ll pick out the nicest one for you.”

“Pick the second nicest for yourself, Dameron,” says Han. “You’re staying, too; Leia spent the entire trip here complaining about how I flew the shuttle, so I’m drafting you to take us back.”

“You’re voluntarily letting someone else pilot?” Poe asks, because he can’t think of a single time that the general complaining about _anything_ has resulted in an actual change in Han’s behavior.

“Just go with it, kid,” Han says, scowling, and Poe wonders if Han thinks he’s ever fooled anyone, ever, in the course of his life.

“Yes, sir,” Poe says. “Thank you, sir.”

Han rolls his eyes, but he slaps Poe on the shoulder as he straightens up. “I managed to talk him down to Commander,” he says, in a lower voice. “Rest is up to you.”

His Academy friends ambush him and Kala and Jess immediately after the ceremony, dragging them to Dagna’s new prefab for a tour. “You realize that we _built_ this for you, right?” Jess asks, producing a flask of something sweet and cold that kicked like a tauntaun. “With our own two hands.”

“And you realize _we_ know that these are self-constructing prefabs, right?” Uxon’l says, waving xir tentacles around. “It’s not like we’re roughing it out here.”

Poe settles back on Dagna’s bed, which she’s already decorated with a few furs, and just listens. The Resistance, and the Fleet before that, are full of good people and camaraderie, but he’s missed the nerdy enthusiasm of the Jedi trainees, the way they’ll start arguments about ancient fighting techniques that go on for three hours in four different languages. He’s never been sorry to be a pilot, and even now he doesn’t envy them for the life they’ll lead as Jedi Masters (whenever Luke finally decides to actually let one of them get their mastery). But he’s glad that they’re closer to the D’Qar base now, glad that he’ll have an excuse to stop by and pester them.

Jess and Kala get a beep from their comms, and heave identical sighs. “All right, Dameron, fun’s over,” Kala says, standing up and extending her hand to him. “Hopefully you didn’t drink too much of Pava’s horrible concoction, otherwise the hyperspace jump isn’t going to be much fun for you.”

Poe grins up at her and stays right where he is. “Sorry, I’ve been selected for a very special mission. The general has asked me to stay overnight and—“

“Ravish Luke?” squeals Dagna, clasping her paws together. “With wild abandon?”

The whole room erupts into similarly-pitched reactions, and Poe tries to remind himself that he is twenty-four years old and can’t just tell everybody to shut up. “For your information, I will be flying the general — both generals — back to our very secret base tomorrow morning.”

“Right, but that’ll happen _after_ you ravish Luke,” Uxon’l confirms.

Kala kicks Poe in the shins. “Why didn’t you say anything? I would’ve brought lube or something.”

Jess rolls her eyes and drags Kala out the door. “Have fun, Poe! But not too much fun — remember you have to sit in a cockpit all day tomorrow.”

“Hah,” he hears Kala say, “‘Cockpit.’”

After that, the conversation gets considerably harder to listen to, because it mostly revolves around blaming him for Luke’s epic set of blue balls. “How long have you been making him wait for it?” asks Uxon’l, pouring out another drink. “A man can only be pushed so far. Plus, he’s working through trauma! Kidnapped and left for dead and everything! You _owe_ him your dick.”

“I haven’t been—!” There’s no way Poe is going to start defending himself by listing off all the times he has failed at getting into Luke’s pants, so he just finishes, “It isn’t like that,” prim.

Dagna solemnly puts her paw on his knee. “Go to him, Poe,” she says, dramatic and urgent. “Go and finish what we began eight years ago—“

“Almost nine, ugh, are we getting old?” Uxon’l groans.

“You are _interrupting the moment_ ,” Dagna hisses.

Uxon’l doesn’t look very apologetic. “Whatever. Go and ravish, Poe. We salute you.” Xe sloshes the drink into xir eye attempting it and swears.

Poe gets up. “I am leaving, but only because these blatant character defamations have offended me, and also because it’s getting dark and I should be tucked up in my tent like a good soldier by now.”

“Hey,” says Dagna, “If that’s your kink, I’m sure Luke would be happy to—“

“Leaving now!” Poe calls, and slams the door behind him.

It really is getting dark; this moon has a faster spin than either Yavin or D’Qar, each day lasting about fifteen hours. But it’s still warm, the clouds that had threatened earlier in the day clearing out and leaving an unobstructed view of the gas giant, pink and glowing in the sky. Poe likes D’Qar, but he misses Yavin Four, with its cluster of fellow satellites and Yavin Prime, dwarfing them all, floating through the endless sky.

He heads back to the encampment up on the hill, intending to change out of his shirt at least before finding Luke; but when he gets there, only the general and Han’s tent is up. In the spot where his tent was is a box, the word “OOPS!” scrawled on the top. He opens it up; inside are his change of clothes, which he guesses was Ello’s contribution, as well as some machine oil whose labelling guarantees it nonharmful to human skin and a bottle of incredibly expensive brandy, liberated from who-knows-where.

MAY THE FORCE BE IN YOU, Kala wrote in a note wrapped around the bottleneck. Poe is going to kill all of them. He puts on the fresh clothes, though, and snags the brandy, stuffing the note into the pocket of his discarded pants.

Luke’s dwelling is on the other side of the compound, and as Poe gets closer he slows down, hesitates. He can feel another presence in there with Luke. It’s not anyone he recognizes, but it’s familiar at the same time. He knocks anyway, resisting the urge to straighten his shirt or run a hand through his hair.

Then Luke answers the door and Poe forgets about everything else. “You shaved,” he croaks.

“Hello,” says Luke. He’s cut his hair, too, and he’s wearing something a hell of a lot more flattering than the normal Jedi Master getup he’s been working for the past ten years. His feet are bare; Poe’s pretty sure this is the least amount of clothes he’s ever seen Luke in.

Poe lifts the bottle, an offering. “Can I come in?”

Luke stands aside. “I’m going to assume you had nothing to do with the decor,” he says, and Poe laughs because someone’s lit a dozen candles, placed strategically around the room. Rose petals are strewn across the bed (Poe absolutely did have something to do with getting a double bed put in here, something Jess and Ello made a lot of fun of him for) and one corner of the blanket is turned down invitingly. “I came back from the ceremony and found it like this.”

“Definitely not,” Poe says, shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it on the hook next to Luke’s cloak. “But I love whoever did more than I can say.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Luke warns, which has to be the most absurd instruction ever, especially when he locks the door behind him. “I made us some hot chocolate, which you’re going to drink and then you’re going to leave.”

Poe puts the brandy on the table and is all set to make his case for a sleepover when the feeling of someone in the room gets too distracting to ignore. “Okay, is there somebody else here?”

Luke looks around, alarmed, before blinking. “Oh. That,” and he smiles to himself. “Thank you for reminding me.” He goes over to a large, upright crate stacked with the rest of his boxes along the far wall. The keypad trills as he enters a passcode and the front of the crate lifts away with a melodramatic cloud of steam.

Poe joins Luke, waving away the steam. “You’re shitting me,” he says as it clears.

Inside are a half-dozen saplings, each in their own pot. “I couldn’t bring myself to uproot your tree and risk it on the journey,” Luke explains. “And my tree is still safely in stasis until I can get five minutes to myself to look for the First Temple. But Lor San suggested taking along some cuttings, to plant here.” For a second Poe feels a pang of guilt; he hadn’t thought about his tree, stranded on Yavin Four.But Luke continues, “I hope you don’t mind, by the way; I’m letting Lor San take over my lease for the time being.”

“That does sound like something you ought to have cleared with your landlord first,” Poe says, reaching out to touch one of the saplings. In spite of the container’s chill he feels the warmth of all of them, clustered together. He wants to tell them they’re safe, that they’re in their new home now. “Did you fire him? He’s a better teacher than you.”

Luke takes out a sapling and shuts the crate back up, looking irritated. “I didn’t _fire_ him,” he huffs. “In fact, he nearly quit. Apparently my unplanned absence while a guest of the First Order came close to breaking his spirit.”

“So you’re bribing him with a crappy house and a mystic tree?” Poe asks.

“He’s on sabbatical for a year or so,” Luke says, ignoring that. “Between myself, Ben, Dagna and a few of the older students, we should be fine. Besides, Lor San’s not as young as he was; I doubt he’d appreciate roughing it the way we’ll have to for the first year.”

Poe looks around at Luke’s quarters. “Yeah, it’s pretty dire.” He looks at Luke closely. “That’s not the only reason you let him stay behind, though. Is it?”

Luke hesitates. “No,” he admits. “He and Snoke were good friends; Snoke’s disappearance hit him hard, and when I told him about Snoke’s connection to the First Order — he claimed he couldn’t believe it.”

“You think Lor San might be a spy?” Poe asks, not really surprised. It’s one theory that makes sense. Poe’s got a few others.

Luke hands the sapling over to Poe. “I’m looking for reasons not to.”

Poe looks down at the pot. “Wait,” he says. “Is this for me?”

“I thought you might appreciate one, too.” Luke smiles, looking a bit embarrassed. “It might be nice for the garden on your base. Hopefully it’s not in danger of those dragon vines.”

“You’re seriously asking me not to get any ideas now?” Poe asks, because Luke brought him a _baby tree_. He grins, tries not to bounce on his toes.

“I seriously am,” Luke says, probably trying for discouraging.

“Too late for that,” Poe tells him. He puts his new tree on the table, rubs his thumb along a tender branch. “Speaking of which, Han said he talked to you. Something about changing the qualifications? Apparently you couldn’t even hold out for an _Admiral._ ”

Luke makes a big production out of picking up Poe’s brandy and examining it, idly picking at the foil wrap. “The case was made,” he says to the bottle, “That it’s more than likely you won’t live long enough to get to Admiral rank, and that perhaps circumstances might have changed.”

“He told you to get your head out of your ass, didn’t he?” Poe says, because Han doesn’t sound that diplomatic on his best days.

“In so many words,” Luke admits. He goes over to the cooker, where a small pot of hot chocolate is steaming. “I suppose we can add some brandy,” he says, sounding dubious.

Poe comes up behind him, slides his hand around Luke’s waist and rests his chin on Luke’s shoulder. “Or we could just skip the hot chocolate and drink straight from the bottle,” he suggests, “For old time’s sake.”

“That was hardly your most enjoyable night, I wouldn’t think,” says Luke, tensing for a second before taking a deep breath. “Poe. I do mean what I said.”

“That I shouldn’t get any ideas?” Poe steps in a little closer, flattens his hand across Luke’s stomach, pulling him in. “I won’t.”

“This feels like an idea.”

Poe chuckles against the curve of his neck. “There’s a joke in there somewhere, I know it.” But he takes the hint and steps back, fingers trailing. “Think of it as my _blandan_ on a stick.”

Luke huffs and pours the hot chocolate into a pair of mismatched, ugly mugs that Poe has a horrible suspicion are leftover craft projects from when Ben was a kid. He opens the bottle of brandy and puts two healthy dollops in each one, before turning to catch sight of Poe. He scowls. “ _Not_ on the bed.”

Poe, who’s halfway to sitting down on top of the rose petals, freezes. “It looks comfortable,” he tries.

Luke points at a chair. “I have two of them for a reason,” he says. “And that reason is so that I don’t have to endure any more conversations with young people in which they try to lounge seductively and wrinkle my bedspread.”

Poe drops into the chair. “These young people, no imagination,” he complains. “Anyone try it recently?”

“I wasn’t kidding when I told you I had a speech,” Luke says, a mug in each hand. “When I came back to the Academy after you rescued me, two of them offered to comfort me with their bodies the very first night.”

“Consecutively, or concurrently?” Poe asks. He prods at himself for some kind of jealousy, but nothing snaps back at him. He takes the mug Luke offers him. “Did you tell them you were seeing somebody, and that it would terribly wrong of you?”

Instead of laughing, Luke looks irresolute. Poe takes a sip of the hot chocolate — it’s fine, but he’s never been crazy about it the way Luke is — and very carefully puts it down on the floor so he can sit back in the chair, his heart thumping. Luke drifts closer, slips between Poe’s knees to loom over him.

“I shouldn’t keep you here like this,” he says, searching Poe’s face. “It’s not fair to you—“

“I’ll decide what’s fair to me, thanks,” Poe interrupts, because he’s not going to go through _another_ round of this bullshit. He wraps his arms around the back of Luke’s legs, tugs him in closer and off-balance so he can put his chin on Luke’s stomach and gaze up at him. From this angle, Luke’s eyes look wide and blue-black, tempted. “And if you didn’t want to keep me, you shouldn’t have let me stay. It’s too late now.”

“You might be right about that,” says Luke, softly. He puts his free hand — his right hand — hesitantly on Poe’s shoulder, watching him carefully.

“If you’re expecting something other than a dirty joke about you being part sex droid—“ Poe starts, and Luke does laugh then. Poe reaches up and clasps Luke’s right hand in his, pulls his head back to examine it critically. It’s faintly chilly, but that’s all. “You decided not to get a new exoskin?” he asks, carefully kissing the tip of each finger.

Luke’s breath hitches, which is nice. “I — thought it would be more trouble than it’s worth. If it’s damaged, I can’t exactly call a droid repair shop to get it fixed.”

“Very reasonable,” Poe agrees, brushing his lips across the pad of Luke’s thumb. “Too bad about all those nerve endings, though.”

“I can still feel some things,” Luke says, clearing his throat. “I… have got to admit, I’m a little worried about what happens when you _do_ make Commander.”

Poe grins, lets Luke’s hand drop and slouches back in the chair so he can get a good look at what he’s got to look forward to. “Afraid I might’ve moved on by then?” he asks. “Maybe a strapping young soldier, or one of your Jedi trainees will catch my eye — _another_ one of your trainees,” he amends, thinking fondly of Uxon’l.

Luke looks torn between hilarity and outrage. “Who amongst my trainees have you been—“ he gestures vaguely toward the window, where they’re all (hopefully) snug in their beds.

“You didn’t think I’d been celibate this whole time, did you?” Poe asks, curious. Luke’s never asked about his love life; whenever Poe had dangled leading comments in front of him he’d always smiled and changed the subject.

“Of course not,” Luke says, and at least he sounds sincere. “I just hope — that it didn’t interfere with your studies. For either of you.”

“Oh, we studied long and hard, believe me,” he says, and accepts the knee to his thigh as a small price to pay for making Luke blush like that. “So is that what’s worrying you? You think I’ll get tired of waiting around?”

“I wish it were,” mutters Luke, taking a drink from his own mug. Poe can tell a stalling technique when he sees one. “No, I just — it’s been a very long time for me, and if you do — if we do—“

“When,” Poe corrects.

Luke breathes out through his nose. “I might be a bit… rusty.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Poe says, and he tucks in his legs so that he can slide them between Luke’s as he pulls on Luke’s belt, a little harder than necessary, sending Luke staggering on top of him, straddling his lap and almost spilling the hot chocolate everywhere. “Oof, you’re heavy,” he complains, but he’s smiling so wide his face hurts.

“ _Poe_ ,” Luke hisses, clutching at his mug and clearly about to have a fit, so Poe puts a finger on Luke’s lips, trails it down his chin.

“I promise,” he says, meaning it, “I’m not getting any ideas. But if you want to keep me here,” and he runs his hand down Luke’s chest, finds his belt again and tugs him closer, “You’ll need to get a little bit of practice in every once in a while.”

“Doesn’t that mean I should be practicing with someone else?” says Luke, but he sounds breathless already.

“I mean, you can,” Poe says, putting his hands up in surrender. “Don’t let me stop you.” For a second it looks like Luke might actually try to get up, but he just heaves a sigh and adjusts his weight, getting comfortable and also— “Okay,” Poe gasps, “I might be getting a few ideas, now.”

“I can sense that,” says Luke, his smile wry. He takes a sip of his chocolate, the bastard.

But Poe just leans back in the chair, his hands linked together at the small of Luke’s back. “Now, now,” he chides, “It’s important that we both respect boundaries. I’m not even a Commander yet, and we have a deal. So I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask _you_ not to get any ideas, either.”

“I deserve this,” Luke says, shaking his head sadly. “I deserve all the pain and suffering that goes along with it.”

“Damn right,” Poe tells him. He shifts a little and _there’s_ Luke, hot and thick against him, and Poe arches his back so he can thrust, just the tiniest bit, enough to make Luke clench his teeth and hold onto the back of the chair with his right hand, the wood creaking.

“ _Poe_.”

“All right, all right,” he grumbles. It’s easy enough to stop; he’s hard but lazy about it, a buzzing sort of arousal that he can soak in for hours. He can’t say he’s not tempted to push for what he wants, but the lines are still here — just because he’s scuffed them up as much as humanly possible doesn’t mean he wants to cross them tonight. This is already enough — already more than he’s ever had. So he keeps his hands clasped and out of trouble and watches Luke watch him.

Luke finally starts to relax, takes another drink. “So a few more years of practice,” he says. “What else do you have to teach me?”

“I’ve got a list,” Poe assures him. “It’s itemized, with bullet points — you’ll love it.”

“Like what?” Luke asks, sounding interested.

Poe grins and looks meaningfully at the hot chocolate, and he can _feel_ Luke get harder when he realizes what Poe wants him to do. Carefully Luke puts the mug to Poe’s lips and watches him, greedy, as he takes a taste. “Like that,” Poe tells him, licking at the rim.

“I’m already worried,” Luke mutters, but he spreads his legs just a little bit, sighing in relief as he presses against Poe’s cock, delicious and excruciating.

Poe thumps his head on the back of the chair, squeezing his eyes shut and counting to twenty. This is simultaneously the best and worst idea he’s ever come up with. “No, you’re not,” he manages after a minute. “You’re thinking about how you can scam your sister into giving me a promotion early.” 

“That would be highly unethical and not at all in keeping with the tenets of the Jedi order,” Luke says. There’s a long pause. “I missed you.”

Poe squints one eye open so he can figure out what Luke means; between the alcohol and the most insanely maddening foreplay he’s ever experienced — foreplay that’s not going to end for at least a couple more _years —_ he’s having a tough time following the conversation. “I figured you didn’t want anything to do with us,” he says, and doesn’t say _with me_.

“I didn’t,” Luke says. “Not for a long time. But that’s not the only reason I stayed away. I knew — what happened on Takodana, I knew it would happen again if I was around you.”

“You knew we’d have to pretend I was your sex slave in order to escape a couple of bounty hunters?” Poe asks, mostly to annoy Luke out of looking so regretful.

It doesn’t work. “I knew I wasn’t going to be able to resist you much longer,” he says, matter-of-fact. “You have no idea how hard it’s been to say no to you all this time.”

Poe refrains from stating the obvious, too drunk on brandy and hot chocolate and Jess’s terrible liquor and the idea that Luke wanted him before, wants him now and is afraid for his own self-control in the face of it. “So tell me,” he says instead. “When did this start? _Please_ tell me it was when I snuck into your room on my sixteenth birthday.”

“No,” Luke disagrees, sounding so disgusted that Poe frowns in mock outrage. “It was… after that. When you fought off that assassin, saved my life. I thought I’d never seen anyone look so…”

“Beautiful,” Poe supplies. “You said I was beautiful.”

Luke strokes a finger down his cheek, cold metal that Poe doesn’t mind at all. “You were. You are.”

“Is it going to ruin the mood if I say something like ‘I know’?” he asks. “Because I don’t want to ruin the mood, but I do know.”

“It’s ruining the mood a little,” Luke admits. “But I’ll let it slide this time.” And he emphasizes the point with a hitch of his hips, making Poe whine in the back of his throat.

“You are… an example to us all, Luke Skywalker,” he pants, and Luke laughs and gives him another drink of chocolate, cradling the mug between them. “Which reminds me, can I renegotiate the terms of my visit? You said I had to drink my hot chocolate and go, but I might need to stay a little longer.”

Luke’s looking suspicious now. “How much longer?”

“Until tomorrow morning, if that’s not too much trouble.”

“You want to _sleep_ with me?” Luke says, in a higher register than Poe’s ever heard in his life.

Poe bites down hard on his cheeks so he doesn’t laugh in Luke’s face. “Well, some hooligans took down my tent up at the campsite,” he sighs, resting his lower lip on the mug and looking up at Luke with soulful eyes. “For nefarious reasons of their own.”

Luke looks around at where the candles are starting to gutter, at the petals still strewn across his bed. “Probably the same ruffians who broke in here and tried to set it on fire,” he says thoughtfully.

“And littered it with dead plants,” Poe agrees. “So you see, for tonight I’m homeless and alone.”

“And so you’re asking to sleep with me,” Luke repeats, and there’s something gratifying about how he keeps getting stuck on that part.

“I’m asking to sleep in your bed. You being in it would be a welcome bonus, but it’s not a dealbreaker if you want to go sit at your desk like a frustrated monk again.”

Luke scowls at him. “I should make you sleep in this chair,” he says. “Or on the floor.”

“You’re absolutely right, you should.” He untangles his fingers and lets his hands slide down the curve of Luke’s ass, smoothing down his thighs, dangerous. “Do you trust me?”

Instead of answering, Luke leans down, brushes his mouth against his. Poe keeps himself still and inhales the warm scent of chocolate but doesn’t try to chase after him when Luke pulls away, gets to his feet and holds out his hand. “Come on.”

Now is definitely not the time to tell Luke he generally sleeps naked, so instead he helps Luke de-rose-petal the blankets and limits himself to removing his boots and socks. Luke watches him with a dubious expression as Poe slides chastely between the sheets. “Comfortable?” he says, after Poe has beaten his pillow a few times into submission.

“Not yet,” Poe replies, propping himself up on his elbow. “So how is it those teenagers like to pose themselves on your bed? Let me see if I remember it right—“

Luke mutters something deeply unflattering and crawls in after him, turning his back emphatically on Poe as he hikes up the covers. Poe rolls onto his stomach, watching the nape of Luke’s neck as he says, “You want me to deal with the candles? It’s kind of a fire hazard, but I’ll need to climb over—“

With a wave of his hand, Luke douses all the candles at the same time, filling the air with the smell of smoke. “Go to _sleep_ ,” he says. “You have to fly my sister and brother-in-law back home tomorrow, and I don’t want to hear how you accidentally steered them into a nova because you spent all night staring at the back of my head.”

Poe chuckles, but it turns into a yawn halfway through. He shuts his eyes and reaches out for the darkness, pulling it close and wrapping it around him until he’s sinking down into sleep.

He wakes up weighed down and so hot he’s dizzy with it, sweat prickling down his back. He tries moving, but everything feels heavy, so he opens his eyes to a bright morning sun streaming through the window. Luke is sprawled on top of him, snoring softly on his chest, and Poe is effectively pinned until either Luke awakens or his need to pee gets to be a problem.

It doesn’t take that long; Luke wakes up by degrees, like he’s holding onto sleep with both hands and his teeth. At last he moves a bit and seems to realize where he is, exactly. “Oh,” he says.

“Good morning,” Poe says. This might be the best possible start to a day. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, in fact,” Luke says, like it’s a novelty.

“Is that not normal for you?” Poe asks. He cards his fingers idly through Luke’s hair, because Luke’s never going to let them do this again until he makes Commander and he might as well get what he can. It helps that Luke closes his eyes, leans into it.

“It hasn’t been lately,” he says, “I usually lie awake thinking about what I could have done to save them.”

No points for guessing who _them_ refers to. “What do you think we could’ve done?” Poe asks. Luke said in the general’s office that he didn’t blame her; he never thought to ask if he blamed Poe. Or himself.

“Nothing,” Luke admits, “Which is why I stay awake so long. There’s a certain… comfort in guilt. You can pretend that if you’d only done something differently, things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did. You can assert some kind of control. But Snoke was in charge of it all; he pushed every button. I hate myself sometimes for how relieved that makes me.”

Poe tugs at him, maneuvers him up the bed just enough so that he can tuck Luke’s head into his shoulder, rest his chin on Luke’s head. “Tell you what,” he says, “The next time something blows up in your face, I’ll make sure it’s all your fault. Deal?”

Luke chuckles, and Poe wants to curl into it. “All right.” He sighs across the hollow of Poe’s throat. “How did you sleep?”

“I always sleep well,” Poe says; it’s not exactly a lie. “I dreamed of the new trees, that they’d grow up into a huge tower, with you at the top.”

“Did I hang down my beard to let you climb up?” Luke asks, getting comfortable, which is unfair because Poe’s always been in favor of morning sex and having Luke drowsy and warm and _here_ is an awfully serious test of his self-control before he’s had any caffeine.

“No, you didn’t have a beard, because you’re never growing that thing again _ever_ unless you want to live a very sad life all by yourself,” Poe says, trying to sound stern and not like he’s willing a hard-on away with his mind. “No, you just… stayed up there. I don’t know. It was a nice dream, though. What about you? Did you dream about floating away with me on an ocean of hot chocolate?”

“What makes you think I was dreaming of you?” Luke says, and Poe makes an offended noise. He can feel Luke smile against his shoulder. “I did dream of an ocean, though. And an island — but I’ve had that dream for years.” He yawns. “I’d almost forgotten about it, these past few months.”

Poe’s sorely tempted to either drift back off to sleep or try and convince Luke he was promoted to Commander in the middle of the night while they were both asleep, but eventually his bladder gets the better of his warring impulses. “You know I’d love to stay here and talk all about the dreams you’ve had of me,” he says, “But I really have to pee.”

Luke lifts his head to stare down at him; he looks extremely fond. “You can take the romance out of anything,” he says as he rolls off.

“Hey, wait until I make Commander, I’ll show you romance all over the place,” Poe says, clambering over him and making a straight line for the bathroom. He checks himself in the mirror and concludes that no matter how virtuous they were last night, everybody who sees him is going to assume he got ridden hard and put away wet. But he can’t stop grinning, and he splashes water on his face to cool the flush of satisfaction on his cheeks. He comes out to find Luke up and the bed made, Poe’s boots pointedly on the floor next to his little tree. “Kicking me out already?”

At least Luke looks a little uncomfortable. “I thought it might be wise to leave before everyone else is up and around,” he says, folding his arms over his chest like he’s not wearing yesterday’s clothes with his hair extremely, adorably mussed at the moment.

“If you think that about a thousand credits aren’t going to be changing hands the minute I step out that door,” Poe says, shrugging his jacket on, “You’re not nearly as smart as I thought you were.”

“How smart did you think I was?”

Poe doesn’t answer that because he does, at some point, want to have actual sex with Luke. He pulls on his socks and shoes and grabs the tree, then stands at the door. “Am I getting a goodbye kiss?” he asks. “Or do we just—“

Luke uses the Force to shove him up against the doorway, which Poe is going to complain about one day when he stops finding it hot, and comes slowly toward him, speculative. He stops right in front of Poe and looks him up and down, reaches out to adjust his jacket and leans forward to give him a soft kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you soon,” he says, and it sounds like a promise; sounds like a vow.

Poe steps out the door and into brilliant sunshine and the sound of his friends, clustered around Dagna’s doorway where they’d clearly all just been summoned by the lookout, cheering wildly. He makes sure Luke’s door is firmly shut before he takes a big bow and makes his way over.

Dagna comes bustling up. “Was it amazing? Was it magic? Did you cry,” she adds in a slightly lower tone.

“We just spooned,” Poe says, cradling his tree in one hand and bending down to give Dagna a hug. “Uxon’l still asleep?”

“You know xe only gets up for earthquakes and Death Stars,” Dagna tells him. “I’ll tell xem you said goodbye. When are we going to see you again? Now that we’re rebel scum like you.”

Poe resists the urge to boop her on the nose; Ewoks have a vicious bite. “We’ll see,” he says. “I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”

“Now he tells us,” says the general, coming up from Ben’s prefab. Her husband and son are trailing after her, both looking awkward and angry about something. Poe isn’t touching that with a ten foot pole, so he just kisses the top of Dagna’s head and sends her grumbling back to bed. The general eyes his tree dubiously. “Do I want to know?”

“A present, sir,” he says. “In the interests of fostering goodwill between the Resistance and the Jedi Academy. I thought it would be improper to refuse.”

She makes a disgusted face. “So what you’re saying is I owe Han three hundred credits.”

“That’s all you bet, sir?” Poe says, shaking his head. “I’m offended.”

The four of them — Han and Ben still sulking behind — make their way past Luke’s home toward the shuttle; as they pass, Luke comes out and effects extremely unconvincing surprise at seeing them. “I thought I might’ve missed you,” he lies horribly.

The general looks up at Poe. “I really worry about you sometimes, Dameron,” she says. But she and Han go over to say their goodbyes, leaving Ben to scuff his feet awkwardly and glare at Poe’s knees.

“Nice place,” Poe says.

Ben looks up, instantly suspicious. “I wanted us to be based with the Resistance,” he says. It’s as if he can’t say anything without it coming out like a whine. “But my mother says this is safer.”

“You could always join up,” Poe says, even though his lip curls on instinct at the very thought.

“She won’t _let_ me,” Ben says, resentment piling up behind his words; Poe’s been ashamed of even suspecting what he suspects, but then Ben opens his mouth and it’s like a confession every time.

“Well, there’s a lot of security concerns right now,” he says. “I’m sure you get it. We’ve got to make sure the Academy isn’t housing any spies or moles or sniveling overgrown brats who’d do anything for a little bit more attention.”

Ben freezes mid-pout, and Poe’s got him.

“You know, Ben, we all worked so hard to get Luke back once we realized he hadn’t just wandered off. Everybody at the base scrambled to get whatever information we could so we could bring him back. And in all that time, nobody’s really given any thought to how Luke got snatched in the first place.”

“I’m sure Uncle Luke told _you_ ,” Ben says, but it doesn’t have his usual bite.

“I mean the peripherals,” Poe says. “The logistics of it. Knowing exactly what would get him to leave, knowing when he’d be at the house. And then there’s that note.”

“What note?” It’s a nice try, but Poe’s been around better liars for too long.

“The one Luke wrote,” Poe says, smiling. “The one that appeared on Lor San’s desk the next morning. Somebody had to sneak into the Academy and leave it there. Somebody who wouldn’t raise suspicions, who nobody would question.”

Ben tilts his head and says nothing.

“I’m going to be watching you very, very closely,” Poe tells him. “I want you to know that.”

Ben smiles at that, an unappealing stretch of his mouth. He leans into Poe's space and says quietly, “I hope you do.”


	7. Chapter 7

The third time Poe saves Luke, he doesn’t save him at all.

After the fiasco on Hosnian Prime, the First Order retreats to its assigned corner, presumably to lick its wounds. The Confederacy compensates for this by stepping up its game; Poe and the other fighters are up in the air at all hours, defending Resistance outposts, keeping the enemy at bay. They don’t have the luxury of hit-and-run missions anymore; with the formal withdrawal of New Republic support, every battle is a matter of survival. Poe loses men under his command, writes letters to their families that he can’t send because any communication through Republican space can be intercepted. But he writes them and keeps them at his desk and counts every day when he doesn’t have to add one more letter.

He doesn’t see Luke — barely sees Kala, who he _lives_ with. He can’t keep up the pace; none of them can. The general never seems to sleep; every time he reports in for a new mission or a debrief she’s there in the command center, giving out orders, working on new strategies.

“There’s something we’re missing,” she tells him one night, them and Kala and Snap all sitting around a table trying to work out the best strategy against a blockade around their outpost in the Dakani system. “The Confederacy don’t have unlimited manpower, unlimited weapons, but they’re throwing everything they’ve got at us. Why now?”

They get their answer a few days later; they get another all-call alarm in the middle of the night, sirens blaring. Poe falls out of bed and hits the ground already reaching for his boots, his pants, his shirt. He stumbles into the main room at the same time as Kala, a flight jacket over her pajamas and a blaster in her hand. “Wha’?” she says.

“I don’t know yet,” Poe says, shrugging on his own jacket.

Then the message starts. “All flight leaders, report. All flight leaders, report.”

Kala groans and Poe slaps her on the shoulder. “Still happy with that promotion, colonel?” he asks her.

“Fuck you,” she says with real feeling.

The general doesn’t waste time waiting for everyone to assemble in the control room; she’s at the door to the base, directing people and shouting instructions at them over the sound of ships taking off. She catches sight of Poe and snaps her fingers at him. Poe jogs the rest of the way.

“Where do you need me, sir?” he asks.

“Something’s happening at the Academy,” she says.

Poe shuts down any part of him that wants to react to that, vicious. “Something, sir?” he says.

“I need you to lead the squadron out there and see what’s going on,” she says. “It might be nothing. But I’m treating this as a distress call.”

“When did we get the call?” he asks, because all their normal intel is down in the command center.

“We didn’t,” she says, and bites her lip. “I can’t… feel Ben anymore. Not like he’s died, but like there’s something… I need you to find out what’s happened.”

Poe glances over at Kala, whose eyebrows are almost touching her fintips at the top of her head. But Poe asks, “What about Luke?”

“I don’t know,” she says, frowning at nothing, as though she’s trying to listen to something faint. “I could never really sense Luke’s moods, just his… existence. He’s alive, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“We’ll scramble and be on site in four hours, sir,” he says in response, because the general doesn’t want his feelings about knowing that Luke is alive — for now. “Request permission to bring along some transports and a medic?”

“Granted,” she says, “I’m sure Dr. Kalonia will be thrilled.”

Poe sends out a call for medic and doesn’t wait for one to show up, just climbs into the X-wing and preps the engines. BB-8, already in place, sends an all-clear message and they lift off. “Where are we going?” it asks.

“To the Academy,” Poe tells it. “Something’s going on, the general wants to find out what.”

“Your girlfriend is in trouble?” BB-8 asks.

Poe huffs. “One of these days you’re going to say that where someone can actually hear you.”

“That was not an answer.”

“Luke Skywalker and his trainees might be in trouble, how about that?”

BB-8 makes a considering noise — his “please wait while this information processes” trill, which Poe had taught it to do early on in lieu of just shutting down while it ran calculations. After a minute it says, “I have run thirty-five thousand simulations and I believe I have found a hyperspace route that will allow us to arrive at the location twenty-five minutes earlier.”

“You’re a real gift to the Resistance, BB-8,” Poe says, and opens comms to the rest of the squadron to give them the new calculations for the jump.

They come out of it less than a hundred meters in front of a destroyer. “Look out!” Kala calls, and he sees her fighter swerve down and left, angling over the nose of the ship just in time. The squadron scatters in every direction; they don’t dare regroup, not with those cannons that are—

That are not firing at them. No TIE fighters come screaming out of the bay doors. The destroyer glides past them without a single indication that it’s even aware of their presence. Poe directs the X-wings to take up a defensive position, covering the medic shuttle’s run down to the surface, but before they can scramble a formation, BB-8 says, “The destroyer is going to jump into hyperspace in three seconds.”

“Shit—“ but it’s gone, disappeared to who the fuck knows where. Poe ignores the churning in his gut, hopes that he was close enough to the destroyer that he could have sensed if Luke was on it. “All right, let’s go see what’s down there.”

What’s down there is something out of a nightmare.

X-wing sinks several inches into the ground as it touches down. Poe gets out and feels the ground suck at his boots, and he orders BB-8 to stay with the fighter. He manages to climb up the ridge that overlooks the Academy’s grounds, cold leeching into his feet.

Kala and Jess come up to him. “What the _fuck_ ,” says Jess.

Beneath them there’s nothing but destruction — the buildings have all been burned or simply demolished, as though someone took a giant sledgehammer to them. There’s no sound, no movement, and if it weren’t for the fact that Poe can _feel_ Luke here, he’d think that the destroyer had somehow taken them all.

And if it weren’t for the bodies.

“Come on,” Poe says, not recognizing his own voice. “Look for survivors.”

The squadron fans out, pulling at the corpses buried in the mud, checking for signs of life. Poe turns over a body and Uxon’l’s eye stares up at him, already greyed-over. Xe’s body temperature was about ten degrees hotter than a human’s, but xe is ice-cold.

“Leave it,” Dr. Kalonia orders, from behind him.

Poe can’t get up. “Xe isn’t an ‘it,’” he says, wondering if he should close xir eye; if that was amongst the things that were done with the body in xir culture. He never asked. Never thought he’d need to know — Jedi are famously long-lived, healthy, vital even in old age.

“That’s right,” says Dr. Kalonia. “But that body isn’t Uxon’l anymore. That body is just a thing, all right?” She drags him back up to his feet, turns him around so he’s looking at her. “Find me patients, Dameron. Find me _people_.”

He nods and starts heading for Luke, because if Luke is here, there will be patients. He can’t see him — his eyes are telling him that there’s nothing in this direction, no reason to keep walking this way — but the pulse of heat is almost nauseating. He keeps going; he wants to close his eyes but he doesn’t dare.

“Luke?” he says, because he’s close, close enough to touch but Poe can’t _see_ him. “Luke, it’s me. It’s Poe. Where are you, buddy?”

Dagna loved practicing her mind trick on him back on Yavin Four, although they always agreed on the rules first. She was terrible at compelling him to do anything but good at tricking him; the moment when she revealed that she was actually on the other side of the room, or wasn’t ten feet tall, or had poured a glass of water over his head, always felt like a trapdoor opening under him.

When Luke drops the illusion, it feels more like a curtain being pushed aside from a window; all at once Luke is there, grey-faced and swaying, a handful of children huddled behind him. His lightsaber is out, rock-steady in his right hand.

“Luke?” Poe says, gently. “Can you hear me?”

Luke blinks. “Poe.”

“Yeah,” Poe says, and smiles at the kids. “We’ve come to take you home.”

“I don’t think I can move,” Luke says, but he turns off the lightsaber. He looks like he’s about to fall over. “I’m—“

None of the kids will get more than five feet away from Luke, and so Poe has to more or less wade into them in order to get under Luke’s arm. They stagger toward the medic shuttle, and Poe tells everyone what’s going to happen next — that they’re going to get their very own blankets and somewhere to sit down, and then they can talk to Dr. Kalonia the medic, who is very nice, and then they will all go somewhere safe — and prays to whatever’s listening that the kids are paying attention to him, that they’re not looking down and seeing the dead eyes of their classmates staring after them.

“You’re lying,” Luke murmurs.

“I have been reliably informed that I’m honest to a fault,” Poe whispers back.

Luke shakes his head. “Dr. Kalonia,” he says, “Is meaner than a hungry sarlaac, and you know it.”

Poe has no idea what a sarlaac is; it sounds Tatooinian. But he can guess that it’s not a compliment to their medic. “Careful, or she’ll insist on a physical.” He keeps talking cheerfully to the kids, smiles down at them, talks about how nice it will feel to be warm and dry again as he walks them carefully around another dead body.

It’s Dagna.

  


*

  


The second to last time Poe sees Luke, he finds him in the Garden.

A little over a week has passed since the Academy destruction, which is what everyone’s calling it. Poe has already listened to Luke’s testimony, given less than an hour after he’d arrived back at the base and at his own insistence. He’d been with the youngest students on a three-day outing, a treat for them after a long month of training. Ben had waited until the middle of the second night before he’d called in the destroyer and its complement of Stormtroopers, cutting down down his classmates as they slept — and once the alarm had been raised, hunting them, turning it into some kind of game.

Luke didn’t return in time, but he felt everything, could give a detailed description of each death and did so for the record while the general listened, stone-faced. Ben had told him, holding some twisted version of a lightsaber that Luke had never seen before, that if Luke went with them, his youngest charges would be spared. “A gesture of goodwill, he called it,” Luke reported. Luke refused the offer, and Ben tried to pull at the children’s minds, force them to come to him.

Luke had taken out his lightsaber and cut down dozens of Stormtroopers, over half of the Force-sensitive strangers who had come with them and who’d followed Ben’s every order. “I would have killed Ben, too,” Luke said, while C3PO recorded the testimony, “But I had to focus on protecting the surviving students.” Luke somehow managed to shield all of them from Ben and the First Order’s strike team for three hours; at one point Ben was standing less than a foot away, trying to reach out to him.

Then they all left — Ben taking care to step on the corpses of his classmates and fellow trainees, pushing them down deeper into the mud — without explanation. A squadron of Resistance fighters, lead by Colonel Poe Dameron, arrived less than a half-hour later. Luke did not state for the record that they were too late.

Since the destruction, there has been an ominous calm. The First Order denies any part in the regrettable incident but claims it is the inevitable result of the corruption within the Resistance. The Confederacy and the Dawn Army, less diplomatic, rejoice in the news and tell their followers that any who oppose them will suffer the same fate. The Order of the New Faith declares the Academy’s destruction a sign of their god’s terrible wrath and judgement, that all those who were slaughtered must have been found wanting. A splinter group is formed around the idea that Ben was the true god all along, has struck down the false believers to bring forth a new kingdom.

The New Republic does nothing.

There’s no word from Ben, or about him; the general declares him an enemy to the Resistance. Nobody blames her, or Han — not really. They haven’t been a constant presence in her son’s life for the past fifteen years, training him every day, teaching him the ways of the Force.

Poe is too busy for that first week to do anything besides fall asleep beside Luke’s hospital bed every few days, waking up to see Luke staring at him with grey eyes, blank and dull. He has time to reach out and see Luke flinch away before there’s a call for him to attend another strategy session, another deposition, another scouting mission to find any trace of where Ben has gone. None of them trust this quiet, and the general pushes everyone to their breaking point and past it, trying to find out what’s happened.

But it’s useless, and after eight days of grinding away the general calls a meeting of the top brass. “We’re calling off the search for now,” she says, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her palms. “Whatever’s happened to Ben Solo, we have to assume he’s an irretrievable loss at this point.”

“So we’re giving up, sir?” asks Guich, and there’s a murmur of dismay around the room.

“We’re focusing on what matters,” the general replies. “The Academy’s destruction is a terrible loss, and when we catch those responsible — including my son — we will ensure that they are brought to justice. But our fight isn’t just with the First Order. So let’s get back to work.”

Poe hangs back as everyone shuffles out. The general looks a lot smaller than she did two weeks ago. “Dameron, is there a reason you’re hovering?” she asks.

“When he comes at us again,” Poe says, “What’s your order?”

She does look up at that. “You want permission to kill my son?”

“Sir,” Poe says, and he stands at attention when he says it, because she knows that he’s not asking for permission.

The silence stretches out as she watches him. “Shoot on sight, Dameron.” She shakes her head. “Thanks for not saying ‘I told you so,’ by the way.”

There’s no answer to that, because Poe did tell her so, more than a month ago; pulled her aside and put himself on the line to tell her what he thought about Luke’s kidnapping, about what Ben might have done for Snoke. She hadn’t fired him or demoted him or even yelled; she’d looked tired and and said, “duly noted” and he’d spent the next few weeks waiting for the ax to fall. But nobody was expecting this.

“Take the next few days off,” the general adds, turning back to her reports. “You’ve done good work, and I’m going to need you back at a hundred percent once things start picking up again.”

“Yes, sir,” Poe says, and walks out into dusk. He feels strange, adrift, like someone’s cut the anchorline and he’s floating out into space. He wanders around the grounds for a half-hour until he feels a tug toward the northern end of the base and winds up at the Garden.

Poe’s new tree is off to one side; when he’d planted it two months ago it had been no higher than his knee, but it’s already almost as tall as him, blue-green leaves spread wide to catch the sun. Some of his fellow gardeners grumbled about it taking all the sunshine, but the plants underneath his tree are still lush and vibrant, sprouting flowers and fruits that people swear are out of season.

Luke is sitting on a bench nearby, wrapped in a hospital blanket, his feet dirty. He looks up at Poe’s footsteps; his eyes are still shuttered and blank. Poe sits down next to him. “I didn’t know Dr. Kalonia had signed your release papers.”

“She didn’t,” says Luke. He huddles further into the blanket. “They won’t tell me where they took them.”

“They’re not telling anyone,” Poe says, because he knows who Luke’s takling about — and because it’s true. The kids had taken a shine to Lando that first night, and he’d used the advantage ruthlessly, luring them away from Luke’s still form in the infirmary a few days later and secreting them away to location unknown. Lando hasn’t sent word, as far as Poe knows. According to the official report, every single trainee was slaughtered; the survivors are safer if even their families think they’re dead for the moment. Once Luke reopens the Academy — with a hell of a lot more security this time — they’ll come back, if they want to. But they’re safer out there with Lando than they would be here.

“I never expected that I’d like children,” Luke says. His voice is scratched and faded. “I never really… understood them. I grew up so — there was Biggs, a few other kids my age, but I didn’t understand them, either. I remember the first time Shara invited me to visit — I asked if I should bring a present, because I knew she had a son and I was sure he’d be afraid of me — I wouldn’t know what to do. She said no, I’d be fine.”

Poe doesn’t say any of the hundreds of things that come to mind. He takes Luke’s left hand instead, leans against him.

“Even then, I thought children would — Leia is the one who convinced me to start a school. She said I had to start somewhere, I had to give someone the same chance I’d had. But it wasn’t until she introduced me to Lor San and Snoke that I thought I might be… safe. They’d been taught the _true_ Jedi faith, before the Old Republic fell. And Snoke told me how much he loved children.” He laughs; it sounds awful. “And I thought, I don’t have any business bringing other people into this life. I don’t have any right. But if I had help, maybe I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“You didn’t,” Poe starts, but Luke clenches his hand, too hard, too much strength for a hand made of flesh and bone.

“Of course I did,” he says. “It’s my nature, Poe. In my blood — in Ben’s blood, and Leia’s. We’re dangerous and powerful and we have a knack for killing. Our father taught us very well.”

“Han Solo is your father, too?” Poe says. It’s stupid and wrong but Luke’s eyes still aren’t anything he recognizes.

“Darth Vader is my father,” Luke replies, as though he’s said it a thousand times before, as though Poe should have known all this while, as though the very idea weren’t so revolting that it would shatter entire civilizations with the knowledge alone. “He was a Jedi once; born and raised on Tatooine before he was picked out for another life. He was good with the younger students, taught some of them. He even had a padawan that he cared for like a daughter.” He stretches out his right hand in front of him, holds it up to the light. “There was a prophecy about him, that he would bring balance and peace and all sorts of impossible things.”

“What happened?” asks Poe. It’s the last thing he wants to ask.

“He fell in love,” Luke says, looking up at him. “And fell to the Dark.”

Poe shakes his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Luke turns Poe’s hand over so that it lies palm facing up in his. “I asked Obi-Wan the same question,” he says, and Poe twitches at the feel of Luke’s right hand, tracing the lines on his palm. “He told me it was because my father had been two people, in a way — that one had killed the other. But it was one man the whole time. I know; I saw him die.”

“You’re nothing like him.” It sounds hollow and thin in the darkness.

“I told Ben about his grandfather once,” Luke continues, not hearing. “I thought he might understand if I just explained to him what might happen to us — what had already happened. Leia was so afraid of what he might become. I thought it was because she’d never tried to learn the ways of the Force. Ignorance was our only mistake — there is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no death—“ his voice breaks. “I told Ben because I needed him to look at himself differently; he needed to look at me differently.” He carefully curls each of Poe’s fingers into the palm, folds his thumb neatly across. “But I’ve always been a coward. I couldn’t risk finding out how you would look at me.”

“I’m looking at you now,” Poe says, and Luke squeezes his eyes shut. “Hey,” Poe chides, reaching out his other hand, careful on Luke’s cheek, stubble rasping against his palm as he turns his head toward him. “Luke.”

Luke inhales sharply and opens his eyes: blue eyes, kind and very dark. Poe brushes his thumb across his cracked lips, darts in for a soft kiss. He wants — he still _wants_ , even now, with the weight of all they’ve lost and all he’s learned, the smell of death still clinging to Luke the way it might for the rest of his life. Poe doesn’t believe in salvation, not really; he’s stood in dozens of churches and temples, gazed upon shrines and murmured holy words without the heat of devotion. And even here, faced with the only god he’s ever adored, he cannot offer grace or even understanding. He doesn’t know if it’s because Luke has done something unforgivable, or if there’s nothing to forgive.

He doesn’t care.

“You should be in bed,” he tells Luke, because under the warmth they are both ice-cold, shivering.

“I can’t be down in that infirmary anymore,” Luke says. He stares up at the tree. “I just don’t know where else to go.”

“You don’t need to,” Poe says. He stands up and pulls Luke with him. “You’re coming home with me.”

There’s a hush as they pass and silence in their wake. Poe tightens his grip on Luke’s hand, threads their fingers together, but Luke doesn’t seem aware.

Kala is in the kitchenette when he opens the door; she takes one look and slams down the plate in her hand. It doesn’t shatter, but Luke flinches back. “ _Really_?” she hisses.

“Yeah,” he says, “Really. If you’ve got a problem with it—“

She tosses the plate into the sink where it _does_ break and disappears into her room, slamming the door.

“She hates me quite a lot,” Luke observes, sounding a little more like himself than he has so far.

“She’s just jealous of your beard,” Poe says, because it’s not the right time to tell Luke that everyone hates him — even if they know that whatever happened to Ben is Ben’s fault, everyone who saw what happened at the Academy hates Luke with a sick, resentful rage, hates him for surviving, for failing.

“I don’t think so,” Luke says.

“Come on, in through here,” Poe tells him, pulling him through the doorway and sits him down on the bed, blankets still rucked up from when he fell out of bed a week and a half ago. “Wait for me, okay?” Luke nods.

He comes out of his room to see Kala slamming out of hers, a bag over her shoulder. “I’m staying with Jess,” she announces. “Let me know when _that_ ’s gone.”

There’s nothing Poe wants more right now than to pick a fight, shout at Kala and maybe throw a few plates around himself. But Kala pulled corpses up from the muck while Poe sat with Luke and told the wide-eyed kids stories about friendly rancors and brave adventurers. She cleaned off the bodies and sat with them as they awaited burial or a funeral pyre, flames dancing in her eyes for days on end. Poe has no right to ask her to understand.

So he waits as she stomps out the house, and he waits until her footsteps have faded before he gets a mug and fills it with water. He ignores the broken plate and goes back into his room.

Luke has abandoned his blanket to peer at the crap covering Poe’s desk. Poe hadn’t been able to take much when he’d deserted, just a pocketful of things he’d had on the _Avenger_ , and he’s become a packrat as a result, collecting trinkets from everywhere he goes. He’s got kids’ toys and writing implements, perfume bottles and something he’s got a sneaking suspicion is an Ewok sex toy, although Dagna never—

“When’s the last time you took a shower?” Poe asks. “You’ve still got mud in your hair.”

“The infirmary isn’t equipped to deal with Force-sensitive patients who don’t want to be touched,” Luke answers absently, examining a small fan in the shape of an egret. It spins slowly, once, then stops.

Poe goes over, puts his hands on Luke’s hips and turns him carefully so that they’re facing one another. “All right,” he says, and draws him into the bathroom.

D’Qar’s abundant water supply means real showers, not Fleet-regulation freshers, so Poe tugs at Luke’s infirmary scrubs, peels them off while Luke watches him. He strips out of his own clothes and herds Luke into the stall, turns on the water and lets it beat down on them both. Luke’s injuries are half-healed and ugly across his body: a scar from Ben’s lightsaber on his arm, a bruise from who knows what along his thigh. Poe drags the bar of soap carefully along his skin, moves Luke as needed to rinse away the grit and dried blood.

He grabs a towel and dries Luke off, wincing at each wound that looks worse now that he’s clean. He rubs himself dry and drops the towel on the floor, guides Luke back to his room and into bed. He’s still so quiet, too docile — Poe’s never gone this long without an argument or a contradiction and it’s making him twitch. He sits down on the bed next to Luke, runs a hand over his forehead the way he remembers Pops used to do when he had a fever. “Better?” he asks.

“No,” says Luke, and pulls him down on top of him, too much strength to be resisted. Poe is shoved onto his back before he can do anything, his wrists pinned over his head. “Please,” Luke whispers, harsh in his ear as he drags his cock against Poe’s, tangled up in the blankets, already hard and wanting, “Please, just let me—“

But Poe twists out of his grip, gets his hands on Luke’s hips and stills him. His dick is aching, so close he’s dizzy with it and Luke is as desperate for him as he’s been desperate for years. But he kisses Luke softly on the mouth. “It won’t help you,” he says. “It won’t help this.” He pushes Luke gently away, onto his side, and turns with him so that they are curved toward each other in the narrow bed. He takes Luke’s hand in his, brings it up to his lips to kiss his bruised knuckles.

Luke makes a soft, small sound and kisses him again, winding a hand in his hair — still desperate but Poe can hold him back this time, keep him there. “I don’t know if anything will,” Luke says, a confession. “I don’t know what to do next.”

“You don’t have to do anything, Luke,” Poe says, although he knows how ridiculous it sounds even before Luke snorts, a human sound at least. But he forges on. “I mean it. Go back to Yavin Four for a while. Shack up with Lor San, sit under my tree.”

Luke flinches. “Lor San. I hadn’t even thought — has anyone contacted him?”

“I can go find out,” Poe offers, but Luke tightens his grip. “Or I can stay here,” he adds, because now is not the best time to tell Luke about the very specific kink he’s developed with regards to yanking on his hair. He tries to shift away so his dick isn’t quite so obvious against Luke’s thigh, but Luke tugs at his hair again, tips Poe’s head back so he can lick into his mouth, proprietary. “Oh,” he says; he can’t remember if he was trying to say a different word.

“Stay,” Luke tells him. “Please.”

“I,” Poe starts, and loses the rest when Luke twists his hand in his hair just a little too hard, pain sizzling down his spine. He moans, tries to remember the right words and he can’t.

“Do you have any idea,” says Luke, “What you are?”

“No,” says Poe, and that sounds closer to what he means, but Luke’s other hand slides down Poe’s side, down his leg until he can hitch Poe’s knee across his hip, press open-mouthed kisses down Poe’s neck. He’s about to come just from the sting of Luke’s teeth under his jaw and he arches into it for a sweet moment, unthinking.

“You’re perfect,” Luke whispers against his throat. “Perfect for me.”

Poe manages to get up on one elbow and pull just far enough away so that he can think without the contact high of Luke’s mouth. He can remember now, and he says “Stop,” very gently.

Luke does, but he’s not happy about it. “Is this some kind of elaborate revenge fantasy of yours?” he asks, rolling onto his back. At least he’s sulking and not devastated.

“I can promise you,” Poe says, “I’ve never once had a fantasy about you where you _stopped_.” He takes Luke’s hand, links their fingers together and settles it on Luke’s chest. “I’m not kidding. Sex isn’t going to make this all go away.”

“I know,” Luke admits after a moment. “I’m sorry. I just wanted…” He still looks haunted, hunted; like he’s all alone inside his head and trying to get out, and Poe wants so badly to justify this to himself, to say that Luke deserves to forget everything for a little while.

Instead he kisses Luke again. “ _Blandan_ on a stick, remember?” he says, and that at least makes Luke smile. “If you don’t know what you’re supposed to do now — what about the Academy? You could rebuild it—“

“Not with Snoke out there,” Luke says, “Not with _Ben_. I’ve caused enough children’s deaths at their hands. I won’t risk any others, not until I can be sure of what it is I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You keep saying that,” Luke says, grip tightening almost painfully on Poe’s fingers. “I know I wasn’t the best teacher — but even the worst teacher ought to have seen what others saw. What _you_ saw.”

“I’ve hated Ben since I was eight years old,” Poe points out. “That doesn’t have a lot to do with him going to the Dark Side.”

Luke shakes his head. “There’s something I’ve been missing,” he says. “The Jedi order must have had this happen — I know it’s happened at least once before— but there are no records, nothing I can find. And there’s no one to ask.” He grimaces. “Not anymore.”

“What would you ask them?” Poe points out. “Ben wasn’t something you could’ve stopped if you’d given him more hugs. It’s like you said about Snoke — Ben was pushing all the buttons, it wasn’t anything you could’ve controlled.”

“Ben’s nothing like Snoke,” says Luke, sitting up, his hands braced on either side of him. “It’d be easier if he were.”

“He’s nothing like you, either,” Poe reminds him as he sits up next to him. He reaches over Luke and snags the mug, lifting it to Luke’s lips. “Drink. Slowly.” Luke does as he’s told and Poe scoots back so that he can lean against the headboard and settle Luke against him. “Ben wants to be the next Darth Vader. That’s a pretty big difference.”

Luke sighs. “Not so big as you think. Before I knew who my father really was — I idolized him. My aunt and uncle told me he was a pilot who fought in the Clone wars. He died a hero. I wanted to be just like him.” He holds up his right hand. “I’ve come close a few times over the years.”

Poe snorts and bats at his hand. “Skywalkers are all enormously dramatic, that’s for sure,” he mutters, and takes another drink, offers it to Luke who obediently sips. “What about your mother?”

Poe can’t see Luke’s face, but somehow he knows Luke’s expression. “My mother?”

“What was she like?” Poe knows a little — as much as anyone who takes a history class does. Padmé Amidala, one of the last leaders in the Old Republic, a queen and a rebel. She married a brave warrior who was killed in the Clone Wars, according to every textbook in the galaxy, and died to save her children, raised in secret to protect them from the Empire.

Luke falls silent. “I don’t know,” he says. “I never knew her.”

“But she wasn’t a servant of the Dark Side, was she?” Poe asks. “She didn’t seduce your father into becoming a Sith lord.”

“No,” and at least he sounds sure about that. “She loved him before he fell.”

“So she tried to save him, I’ll bet,” Poe says.

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that if you’re like your father — then you’re like your mother, too. You’ve got just as much power to fix things as to break them.”

In answer, Luke carefully places his hands over Poe’s with the mug still clasped between. Poe can feel heat gathering in the room, a rush like water bursting in and he tenses, preparing for—

The mug breaks neatly in half. Poe’s hands tighten instinctively, keeping the two pieces together, but water begins to bead at the crack.

“I can’t fix this,” Luke says; he pulls Poe’s hands away and the mug stays floating in the air, the water frozen in place. Luke takes the cup in his own hands, turns it this way and that, waving away the water that spills out. “Not with my bare hands. And neither can you.”

“That’s what we have gluepaste for,” Poe points out, still watching the mug. “No one’s expecting you to put the whole galaxy back together, Luke. All I’m saying is that you can choose your legacy. The general's proof of that — _you’re_ proof of that. Ben didn’t fall to the Dark Side because one of his grandparents was a genocidal maniac.”

“To be fair, Han’s parents apparently weren’t all that great, either,” Luke says absently. Poe huffs and takes the mug back, holding it together as he maneuvers out of bed. He manages to get it back to the sink, where it joins the broken plate — casualties of war. He turns around and Luke has followed him out into the main room. He’s still naked, which Poe shouldn’t appreciate as much as he does.

“I liked that mug,” Poe tells him as he walks back over, “For the record.”

“I’m sorry,” says Luke, like he means it, and Poe rolls his eyes and herds him back into bed.

“We’re going to sleep now,” he announces, sliding in behind Luke, one arm around his waist to keep him tucked in close. Luke sighs and shifts back against his cock, still full and heavy. “ _Sleep_ ,” Poe repeats, to himself as much as to Luke.

“I don’t think I can stay awake, anyway,” Luke admits around a yawn. "My energy levels aren't what they used to be."

Poe laughs, scrapes his teeth over the knob of Luke’s spine. “Thanks a lot.” He slides one leg between Luke’s, rubs their feet together to warm them. “Let’s talk about your energy levels in the morning.”

“I can’t wait,” Luke says softly, and it’s the last thing Poe hears before he drifts off to sleep. He dreams of a blue-green tree, its leaves falling all around him, turning to ash when he reaches out to touch.

Poe wakes up a few hours later, dawn coming in grey and lonely. He doesn’t need to search the house, or the base: he can feel the chill settling in his bones.

  


*

  


Poe sees Luke for the last time at a funeral.

Luke Skywalker has vanished. In his absence, the First Order has taken over the Confederacy and looks poised to swallow the Dawn Army. It becomes harder and harder to get information about their plans or even their whereabouts; there are murmurs of a new ally to the Supreme Leader, a tall masked creature that leads something called the Knights of Ren. He is restless and rage-filled and no one who sees him lives for very long afterward. But he is looking for something, it’s clear; looking for someone.

The salvage operation at the Academy grounds yields a container found in Luke’s prefab that only opens to the general’s handprint: the saplings, still held safely in stasis. The general assigns Poe the task of figuring out what the hell to do with them. Poe sends a message to Lor San Tekka, asking for advice; he receives word that Master Tekka has not been seen for several months. The Yavinese government is looking for him, but no one expects foul play — it’s as though Lor San Tekka simply walked out of the house and never came home.

The Resistance has its hands full trying to keep themselves alive, but they have help; a month after the Academy’s destruction, Wedge Antilles himself shows up on D’Qar with an official unofficial treaty. “I blackmailed half the Senate to get this,” he says, flanked by a half-dozen of his security guards.

The general, who has Poe behind one shoulder and Han behind the other, makes an appreciative noise. “Did you bribe the other half?”

The treaty doesn’t give them weapons or ships, but their communications are no longer intercepted and supplies are abandoned in key areas along the Outer Rim. The Resistance is permitted one liason to the Senate, a posting Korr Sella takes with tight-lipped pride, and they are recognized as a political, not just paramilitary, force. It’s more than anyone expected; it’s not enough for what they’ve endured.

Poe gets word from Endor five months after the Academy’s destruction: Dagna is being laid to rest at last. “You should come,” the elder says, the holoprojection doing nothing to conceal her sorrow, her age. Poe recognizes her from Dagna’s descriptions of her grandmother, the black fur across her face and the spots on her ears. “We want you to tell her stories.”

Dagna and her sisters had been in training long before before the Academy, chosen to be the next generation of Elders. Luke had felt their abilities with the Force during a visit to his adopted tribe, and asked their parents if they would allow him to teach them. “‘Only if it doesn’t interfere with their duties,’” Dagna mimicked in a querulous voice one night, explaining why her sisters hadn’t come back from Endor after winter break. Poe and Kala and Jess were draped over each other and Uxon’l was humming to xirself on the bed. They weren’t close with Lamna or Pasna the way they were with Dagna, but they’d been curious, and Dagna had invited them over for beer and stories.

“When we went home and Grandmother questioned them,” Dagna said, sounding very disapproving, “Neither of them could remember the Great Tree ballad _or_ the forestry law amendments that were passed last year, and a half-dozen other things. So the Elders said they would have to stay and focus on their studies. Master Luke was _so pissed_ ; when Grandmother sent him the message he showed up the next day looking like he was going to try to pull her ears right off her head. But Grandmother’s had him wrapped around her little claw since she adopted him, and she just patted him on the head and sent him away. ‘They must grow up to lead our tribe, Tall Baldy,’ she said, ‘No matter what else they get up to.’”

“‘Tall Baldy’?” Jess squeaked, giggling so hard it bounced Poe’s head where it was resting on her stomach. “Your tribe calls _Luke Godsblessed Skywalker_ ‘Tall Baldy’?”

“To be fair,” Dagna said, raising her voice to be heard as everyone laughed, “He is, by our standards, both tall and bald.”

“What do you guys call Han? Or General Organa? Or _Ben?”_ Uxon’l demanded, which set everyone off again imagining it.

Dagna, who was slightly less drunk than everyone else, ticked the names off her paws, “Tall Shouty, Hairy Shouty, and Clumsy Shouty. Chewbacca is Hairy Tree and—“ but everyone was laughing too loudly for her to be heard.

“So why didn’t _you_ have to stay behind?” Poe asked, after they’d settled down again. “Did they give you up for a lost cause?”

Dagna threw her beer bottle at him, stopping it with the Force right before it clocked him right between the eyes. “Nonsense,” she said with a lofty wave of her paw. “I am so brilliant that I’ve memorized all the poems and laws, I can recite the great deeds of every leader of our tribe and the names of every star we can see from our moon. I will not only be the galaxy’s greatest Jedi, but Endor’s greatest Elder. All shall cower before my might.” And she burped so loudly that someone banged on the door and told them to keep it down.

Poe goes to the general and asks if she wants to accompany him to the ceremony. “I mean,” he says, feeling awkward as she stares at him from behind her desk, “They’re your tribe, so I thought—“

“They asked me to go,” the general says. “But I don’t think they’d really want me there.”

“What Ben did wasn’t your fault, sir.” He already hates how many times he’s had to say it, to how many people he loves. If he ever sees Ben again, he won’t kill him; he’ll drag him back home by the scruff of his neck to lie prostrate at the general’s feet. Ben can’t be forgiven, not by anyone or anything in this galaxy, but his mother deserves whatever redemption Poe can scrape up for her out of the mud.

“I hope, Poe,” she tells him, turning back to her reports, “That you can one day understand what a lie that is.”

C3PO and R2-D2 are waiting for him just outside the general’s office; C3PO has a gift for looking awkward at all times, but now he looks agitated. “I wondered, Colonel Dameron,” he says, “Might I and R2 accompany you to Endor? We are, technically, members of the tribe as well. And I would like to… pay my respects, if I may be so bold.”

Poe has never quite understood the general’s attachment to C3PO, or Luke’s fondness for R2-D2 — but most people don’t get why he lets BB-8 recharge in his quarters instead of in the droid bay. “Sure,” he says. “We’ll be heading out in the morning, 0600.”

“Too [ d a m n ] early,” R2-D2 grumbles.

“I don’t know why _you’re_ complaining,” C3PO snaps back, “It isn’t as though you have biorythmic programming, unlike _some_ of us.”

Poe just grins and slaps R2-D2 on the side. “Nice workaround.”

“I’m a [ f u c k i n g ] genius,” R2-D2 calls after him as he heads down the hall.

Jess and Kala are already coming, so they requisition a transport and head out the next morning. On impulse, Poe brings along one of the saplings and holds it close while Jess and Kala bicker gently in the cockpit. It’s a quiet ride. They land near the old Imperial base; the forest has already mostly reclaimed the structure, but there’s still a clear landing pad. An elderly Ewok is waiting for them at the edge of the clearing, and when they get close enough it bows low to C3PO of all people. “Oh Golden One, you do us great honor,” he says, and adds, “Hello, Dangerous Stump,” to R2-D2.

Kala and Jess and Poe exchange looks. It’s very important not to laugh, probably.

The Ewok turns to them. “I am Wicket, and you are Poe? And Jess? And Kala?” He turns to each of them in order, bowing slightly, leaning on his staff. “We are glad for your presence. We begin soon, please come.”

Ewoks don’t usually burn their dead; they are buried deep underneath a tree, preferably an “unsorrowed” tree that does not already have someone buried in its roots. Dagna’s body was cremated, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The entire tribe has gathered around a large tree near the main village. The family — Lamna and Pasna, the Grandmother, a few others that Poe doesn’t know — has dug the hole already, dirt and leaves still clinging to their claws and fur, and so everyone files past to touch them, take on some of the dirt with their own paws or hands. All the while the tribe sings a dirge with words Poe can’t understand. He rubs at his eyes, and Jess smiles up at him, her own eyes overbright.

“You have mud on your face now,” she says. She takes the sapling from his arms and offers him a rag.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to wipe it off,” he says.

Her smile dims. “I guess not,” she says, and frowns down at the tree. “This looks like that new one in the garden,” she says, touching the leaves.

“I thought…” Poe’s not sure what he thought.

Jess bumps her shoulder against his. “You’re such a sap,” she tells him. “Dagna would make so much fun of you, bringing a _tree_ to her funeral.”

But the Grandmother accepts the sapling when he presents it to her with bumbling explanations, brightening a bit when he mentions Luke. She examines the sapling closely. “It will bear no sorrows,” she says, which makes the tribe murmur behind Poe. “You have honored your friend.”

Poe retreats back to where Jess and Kala are sitting next to Pasna and Lamna near the bonfire. “What does that mean?” he whispers to Lamna. “It will bear no sorrows — like, they’ll never bury anybody under that tree?”

Lamna laughs, tears bright in her eyes. She leans against her sister. “A tree that bears no sorrows can have lots of people buried under it,” she explains, her voice hoarse. “It will always welcome others. It’s a good thing,” she adds off of Poe’s and Jess’s and Kala’s bemused expressions.

There are stories and songs all day and into the night, Endor’s planet rising almost as bright as the sun. Poe listens and sings along when he can. There’s so much more to be done, so many more fights and losses; either Jess or Kala or him will die in the next year, statistically speaking. But it’s enough to sit here at the fire and think about what’s already happened, all the things he’s been blessed to see, all the people he’s been blessed to know.

The back of his neck prickles with warmth and he’s on his feet before he’s even processed it, looking around. Kala and Jess flank him, hands slapping at their thighs — none of them have brought weapons. “What is it?” Kala hisses, even while the tribe blinks at them in confusion.

“He’s here,” Poe says. “Luke — he’s somewhere nearby.”

“Of fucking course,” says Kala; she glares at him, but somehow she doesn’t look angry, exactly.

“How do you _do_ that?” Jess whispers.

“I need to find him,” Poe tells them. “Can you… should I…”

Kala sighs through her blowhole. “Go,” she says, and she even has a little bit of a smile. “Just don’t fuck against a tree that’s got a dead Ewok under it.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Poe mutters, and makes his way through the Ewoks who are mostly still sitting around, listening to someone Poe thinks might be Dagna’s aunt. He can see C3PO on the opposite side of the fireplace next to the Grandmother, the firelight glinting off him.

The warmth is coming from the south, away from the funeral site and a bit closer to the village. About halfway there he notices trackmarks — R2-D2’s, making its way through the narrow path. He can’t tell if he’s following the tracks or the feeling of Luke, but all of a sudden there they are, next to a quadjumper in a small clearing.

Poe has to smile around the lump in his throat, because Luke’s dug up that terrifying old black robe he used to wear everywhere — before he’d started the Academy, back when he was the Skywalker who wandered the galaxy and went around taking scared young kids back home. R2-D2 is next to him, saying something that Poe can’t hear, and Luke reaches out to press his hand to R2-D2’s frame, affection and something else that Poe can’t quantify. They look like friends comforting each other. They look like they’re saying goodbye.

A branch snaps underneath Poe’s foot and Luke looks up, pulls the hood off his head. “Poe?” He sounds amazed, shocked, and there’s some mean satisfaction in knowing that Poe can sneak up on him like this. “I didn’t — what are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Poe asks, reasonable.

As per usual, Luke isn’t listening. “A funeral,” he says, looking at Poe closely. “For Dagna?”

“Did the Force tell you that?” Poe asks. Luke gestures to his face and he remembers the dried mud on his cheek. He doesn’t try scrubbing it off. “So you didn’t come here for that.”

Luke shakes his head. “I didn’t know. I came here for… something else.” He walks past him and crouches down at a spot in the clearing where flowers and small trees have grown over what look like old, charred wood, as though there’d been a bonfire here years ago.

“I don’t see much.”

“That’s because there’s not much to see,” Luke says, holding out his left hand over the ground. There’s some kicked-up dirt, as though someone’s come through and pulled something out of the earth. “Not anymore.”

“Okay,” Poe says, and waits.

Luke gets back to his feet. “I — the body of Darth Vader was burned here, almost twenty-five years ago now,” he says. “I stood here until it was nothing but smoking embers and twisted metal. But someone has been here in the past few months and taken what was left.”

Poe’s always been a little too smart. “Ben.”

“Yes.” Luke dusts off his hands.

“So you came to check it out tonight? Just a coincidence?” Poe asks, because he’s still a little fuzzy on that part.

“Hardly,” Luke says, glaring at R2-D2. “R2 sent me a message a few days ago; he said he’d be here on Endor today. He _didn’t_ say why,” he adds. “Or with whom.”

“If he had, would you’ve come?” Poe asks, coming closer.

“I don’t know,” Luke says. He doesn’t move.

Poe stops a few feet away. “That’s more honest than I expected.”

“I try not to lie to you,” says Luke.

“Weren’t you the one who said something about how there is no ‘try’?” Poe asks, and Luke’s faint smile is all the answer he needs. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets — Luke’s jacket. “You could’ve said goodbye, you know. To the general, at least.”

Luke makes a dubious face. “I heard about Han. Leia’s had enough of dramatic sendoffs for the next few years, don’t you think?”

Poe does think. The general all but pointed a blaster at Han to keep him from leaving three months ago, but Han had shouted that she’d been right about him all along, wasn’t this proof enough for her? Hadn’t she put him through hell trying to make him into some kind of _hero_? In the end the general hadn’t shot the Millennium Falcon out of the air, but it had been a close call.

“I thought I’d be a little less histrionic,” Luke concludes, which prompts R2-D2 to make a fart noise of disagreement and execute a tight u-turn, wheeling back toward the bonfire before Luke can use the Force to impale him on a tree or something.

Poe watches him go, then turns back to Luke in the grey-blue light of Endor’s planet. He’s got his beard back again, which Poe’s not going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging, and his cheeks are sunburned, his nose red. Poe is about to say something when he feels something else, someone in the quadjumper. “Who’s with you?”

Luke blinks, then huffs a laugh. “Someone you might know.” He goes over to the cargo hold and presses the button and the hatch opens; inside, suspended in an old-fashioned stasis field, is a tree. It has darker leaves than the one Poe brought here to Endor; it’s bigger, and somehow it feels older.

Poe holds out a hand and feels the warmth of a fireplace, safe and familiar. “Your tree,” he realizes, fists clenching as he pulls away. “I guess you’ve got that five minutes to yourself you’ve been looking for.”

“Not exactly the way I’d have preferred,” Luke agrees, and shuts the hatch. He leans back against the hull of the ship and Poe doesn’t ask where he’s been or where he’s going, what he’s been talking about with R2-D2, when he’s coming back.

He doesn’t ask if he can go with him.

Instead he asks, “Is it important? Whatever it is you’re doing out here, out—“ and he waves up at the sky. “Is it important?”

“Extremely,” Luke says, but he reaches out, takes hold of Poe’s jacket and drags him in. Poe wonders, distantly, if he ought to be angry, ought to use his fists and lash out; but when he brings up his hands he buries them in Luke’s hair and holds him still, kisses him. Luke leans into it, hungry and heated. It doesn’t feel like a goodbye kiss, but Poe’s gotten used to expecting each kiss to be the last.

“Will you come back?” he says against Luke’s mouth.

“Yes,” Luke says, his hands still tight on his jacket, “I promise,” and Poe can feel himself breaking neatly in two, because Luke tries not to lie to him. Because he asked Luke once to let him go, and he should have known Luke would do his best.

So he cocks an eyebrow, slides his hands down to rest on Luke’s wrists. “Is this your way of asking for your jacket back?” he asks. “We could trade, but I’ve got to tell you, I look terrible in robes.”

Luke looks like he wanted to say something profound, but he laughs instead. His blue eyes are bright and very kind as he smooths his hands — one warm, one cold — down the lapels. “This suits you,” he says.

Poe leans in for one more kiss, and then another, and then Luke is pulling away. Poe plants his feet in the ground and watches Luke climb into the jumper. “So I can keep it for now?” he asks, above the noise of the engine starting up.

“Sure,” Luke calls. “At least until someone comes along who looks better in it!” The hatch closes and Luke is just a gold-brown impression in the cockpit, already blurred.

Poe cups his hands around his mouth to shout, “Who’s gonna look better in this than me?” as the ship lifts off and the cold closes in.

**Author's Note:**

> When I started writing this story, I sent a big chunk of it to a friend of mine. Before she even started reading it she wrote back, “Please tell me _why this exists_.”
> 
> Good question.
> 
> This started out as a hilarious character sketch of Dedicated Fanboy Poe Dameron and was going to be about 2500 words. It quickly (and I mean _very_ quickly) turned into the sprawling bildungsroman you’ve just read. I blame two people: rosepetalfall who presented me with the original idea, and Greg Rucka, who wrote the excellent [Shattered Empire comic](https://www.comixology.com/Journey-to-Star-Wars-The-Force-Awakens-Shattered-Empire/comics-series/51939?ref=c2VhcmNoL2luZGV4L2Rlc2t0b3Avc2xpZGVyTGlzdC9zZXJpZXNTbGlkZXI) where we meet Poe’s parents and find out that Luke and Shara Bey went on a Super Secret Mission to recover mystic Jedi trees and, in true Trash Fire Jesus fashion, Luke gave one of the trees to Shara. After reading that, I realized that Poe must have spent his entire childhood under the loving shade of that tree, and from there the monster just kept growing.
> 
> Early on I realized that one thing I wanted out of this was a plausible alternate to the already-ubiquitous fandom trope of Poe Dameron, Intergalactic Space Slut — one which, while very enjoyable, doesn’t really satisfy. The man we see in _The Force Awakens_ is charming and full of life and seems to pull everyone he meets into his orbit, but we also see a man moved by others, capable of enormous acts of bravery and trust for people he barely knows. What kind of childhood would he have had in order to grow up to be someone like that? What was his world like, what shaped him? I didn’t write the story with any particular endgame in mind; I think there’s a case to be made for any pairing, post-movie, even with this story as headcanon. But I wanted to show Poe not as someone who has skimmed cheerfully across the surface of other people’s lives, but as a man who has already known great love and loss. I also wanted his story to dovetail into the events of the movie: showing that when the time comes, Poe will see Finn’s inherent goodness right from the start because he’s seen it before — not just in the sewers of the First Order base. After all, there is something of the savior in Finn too, and perhaps Poe has always been a man hungry for religion.
> 
> Speaking of which. I also, of course, wanted to explore Luke Skywalker: The Man, The Myth, The Grumpiest Christ Figure. I find the idea of faith in the Star Wars universe fascinating, if clearly ill-considered: the Jedi are called a religion but treated like a strike force; their prayers are nothing we recognize but are able to literally move mountains. They are both incredibly powerful — revered, even — and completely unknown to the general public, even in their prime. And when they do disappear, they’re dismissed as superstitious magicians, capable of nothing but parlor tricks. So in the middle of this you drop Luke Skywalker, a farmboy, whiny and impulsive and too young. How would he — how _could_ he — deal with the adulation that would follow him for the rest of his life? In the movie we see a Luke who just gives up and runs away after Ben betrays him and the other Jedi students; but it’s more interesting to see that betrayal not as the straw that broke Luke’s back, but as another reminder that nothing here is sacred, that none of us truly gets a happily ever after.
> 
> And because you cannot write about one without writing about the others, I wanted to show the horrible, inevitable disintegration of the relationship between Han, Leia, and Luke. These three who stood up against an Empire and won, who are known to every child in the galaxy, end up alone and lost by the beginning of _The Force Awakens_ , and as awful as that is, there’s value in trying to see how they might have gotten there, what choices and mistakes they’ve made. Every scene between them was agony to write, but I loved it all the same.
> 
> Finally, I wanted to write a story about love itself: how it can shape you without your consent or even your awareness, how it can sustain you and hurt you and humble you. And how, no matter what the poets say, love is seldom enough; love cannot cure you or redeem you; it certainly can’t save you. Love is a wonderful thing, worthy of aspiration and pursuit, but it cannot be not the end goal — nor should it be. There are more important things out there to live for than love, even if it is a lonelier life.
> 
> Despite that, I wanted a story that was, in all its tragedies, a happy one, full of kindness and humor and bone-deep commitment. The story of something that, were it to happen to us, we would be grateful to have lived through, hopeful for what lies ahead.
> 
> Poe and Luke will be all right, and so will we.

**Works inspired by this one:**

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  * [On a Leash/String Him Along](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10223408) by [LaughingStones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingStones/pseuds/LaughingStones)
  * [Inexorable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10990920) by [dustbottle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbottle/pseuds/dustbottle)
  * [Burn With Icarus's Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13303200) by [StanleyQuinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StanleyQuinn/pseuds/StanleyQuinn)




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